


One Step Away / As Hard As Consequence / Open Your Eyes / Stand Your Ground / Make It A Good One

by irisbleufic



Series: One Step Away 'Verse (& Related Excursions) [1]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1980s, Age Difference, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon Character of Color, Canon Compliant, F/M, Films, First Kiss, First Time, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 64,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We searched all through the night / I couldn't find it; you couldn't find it</i>
</p><p>(Or: A thing is as hard as its consequences, and Marty McFly should know.)</p><p>
  <span class="small">[Title & summary of the first part are stolen from lyrics to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sE7QQCsE2TQ"><b>the song playing on Red the Bum's radio</b></a> at the end of <i>BTTF: Part Two</i>; title and summary of the third part have been borrowed from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gParx165LZU"><b>this song by Rob Cantor</b></a>.  Full series chronology available <a href="http://irisbleufic.tumblr.com/post/133706757150/osa-verse-timeline"><b>here</b></a>.]</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Step Away

**Author's Note:**

> Given I've gone so far as to have executed the premise of this relationship both in 1955 and in 1938, it didn't seem right to walk away without completing the hat trick (a trilogy of stories for a trilogy of films, as it were, although the stories are only directly connected in that they play out the same endgame in three different timelines). This is number three; 1985 was the only remaining year in which I was curious to attempt this ( ~~I've cut out 1885 on all fronts; I regard it as the weakest of the films, and also the least probable, as much as I enjoy it~~ [**wow, I lied**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3444437)). Anyone who's legitimately bothered by significant age difference will probably want to bow out now; that said, I'm amazed that [**_Time Bomb Town_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3127463) was so well received even with the gap closed to eighteen years (there's no gap to speak of in [**_I Am Waiting (Should I Be Waiting?)_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3266666), so, if bothered but still curious, maybe that's the one for you). 2015 was a long time coming; consider these stories my attempt at celebration. Title this time stolen from the song playing on Red the Bum's radio the night Marty gets back to 1985 at the end of the first film (Eric Clapton's _Heaven Is One Step Away_ ). First few lines of dialogue are lifted from the end of the second film; after that, we're off-road and flying. As a side-note, I'm not making up the fact that there are two beds in Doc's garage-lab residence; they're positioned in the space exactly as described. For my Tumblr anons and readers, who wanted to start off 2015 with a bang.
> 
> There is an [8tracks.com playlist](http://8tracks.com/irisbleufic/back-to-the-future-always-running-out-of-time) for this series (although it carries echoes of _Time Bomb Town_ and _Lyra, Burning_ , too).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We searched all through the night / I couldn't find it; you couldn't find it_

**November 12, 1955 / October 26, 1985**

****The lightning-strike was so massive and sudden that Marty scarcely had the chance to leap back in alarm. "Doc!" he yelled into the walkie-talkie, against the storm's roar.  " _Doc_! Are you okay?"

"That was a close one, Marty!" Doc shouted back, a crackle of static. "I almost bought the farm!"

"Be careful," Marty replied, his throat gone raw. "Now, circle that thing around for your long approach from the south or whatever it was you said you needed to do. Let's go _home_!"

"You bet," Doc confirmed, wheeling the DeLorean deftly out of sight just as another flash of lightning cut its angry, jagged way through clouds in the precise spot where Doc had been.

"Jeez, Doc," said Marty, in sheer relief, as the DeLorean reappeared as a mundane, road-bound set of headlights out of the rain that had just begun to fall. He reached for the passenger-side door just as the time machine screeched to a halt in front of him. "That was _way_ too close. Heavy."

"Believe me when I say I've _never_ been so glad I'm alive to hear you use that ridiculous turn of phrase," Doc sighed, tossing Marty a towel from somewhere in the back. "You dry off while I get us settled," he continued, punching their destination into the keypad. "You'll catch _your_ death."

"Almost did, Doc," Marty reminded him, tossing the ruined leather jacket aside. "Lots of times."

"Well, you're safe," Doc said, screeching into reverse, apparently with intent to use the long, empty stretch of road ahead of them to hit eighty-eight miles per hour. "We're _all_ safe," he added firmly.

"Whatever you say," Marty sighed, buckling his seatbelt as the DeLorean accelerated at an alarming rate. "You're the doc, Doc. Let's hope the same can be said for Jennifer and Einie when we return."

November twelfth, temporal junction-point of the entire space-time continuum ( _or_ gigantic coincidence, whichever), vanished behind them in a formidable blue-white flash. What lay ahead when Marty opened his eyes again, daring to hope, was the corresponding stretch of 1985 highway with its significantly updated scenery. He exchanged relieved glances with Doc, who slowed the vehicle as swiftly as he could. They rode in silence until they'd reached the Lone Pine Mall parking lot and Doc's abandoned experiment set-up. As they noisily pulled up next to Doc's white utility van, Einstein came trotting out of the hedge. Marty had never been so relieved to see him.

"This is weird," Marty said, kicking the iced-shut passenger door open, fumbling his belt off just in time to stagger out onto the pavement and greet the dog with open arms. "Shouldn't we have run into two of me and one of you? Why is Einie the only one here? I'm kinda nervous." He spared a glance for the burning wreckage of the Libyans' Volkswagen where it had collided with the film-booth and instantly regretted it.

"I set our arrival time for ten minutes _beyond_ when you found me lying stunned in the bullet-proof vest," Doc admitted, "and hoped for the best. It would seem the most that's happened here tonight is the Libyans' fatal crash and one successful time experiment. Do me a favor and get the van back to my place while I do the same with the DeLorean? I'll take you home after."

"Anything, Doc," said Marty, getting to his feet, and snapped his fingers so that Einstein would follow him over to the van. "We've both done some stupid shit on this series of wild rides, but _you_ saved us in the end."

"Shut up and drive, kid," said Doc, with tired affection, reaching to close the passenger door.

It took Marty a few minutes to wrestle the scattered equipment into the van; Doc stayed put in the DeLorean until he'd gotten it packed up. Marty followed him back to 1646 JFK (the address mystery had at last been solved; 1640 Riverside had been for the mansion when _it_ had existed, whereas the garage's new positioning within fast-food chain and retail development merited the alteration), careful to stay under the speed limit. He rolled down his window as they passed the courthouse, relishing the wind in his hair. Red startled awake as they passed, his radio humming.

Fortunately, Doc didn't have any intention of unloading the van once they got it inside the fenced-off enclosure that was more familiar to Marty than the new-and-improved home to which he'd be returning. Doc shut Einstein inside the laboratory with a freshly opened can of food, coming back outside to regard Marty, who was so exhausted he almost couldn't remain on his feet.

"This was entirely my doing," Doc said, reaching to steady him, and Marty folded against Doc's sturdy frame. "I couldn't blame you even if I tried. Are you sure you don't need to crash here tonight? Spare bed's just the way you left it, unmade with Burger King wrappers everywhere."

"I would, Doc," Marty muttered against Doc's shoulder while the other man held him, "but my parents are gonna be worried sick if they wake up and I'm not there. As far as they're concerned, I got home right after after auditions yesterday and went to bed at a decent hour." Marty crashed at Doc's place pretty often, maybe every other week, but his parents usually at least knew about it. He _wished_.

"How foolish," Doc said, steering Marty toward the DeLorean; he opened the passenger door for him, helping him inside. "I was so wrapped up in the experiment that I never asked how your big day went. The amp's blown out, so you must've done me proud. Will you play at the dance?"

"Nah," Marty sighed, sagging against the window, rubbing his eyes as Doc got in the driver's seat and fired up the ignition. "Forget the dance. They said we were too loud. I'm not cut out for—"

"Marty," chided Doc, skillfully pulling into the street. "You made that tape. The die is cast."

"Not unless I send it to the record company," said Marty, feeling abruptly belligerent and out of his depth. "Sure, the guys might be counting on me, but I can always just tell 'em we got rejected."

"Then, at that rate, you might as well send it and risk the actual rejection!" Doc pointed out.

 _Jesus,_ Marty thought, watching the scenery glide past. _Maybe it's success that I'm afraid of._

They reached Lyon Estates and found it no more graffiti-ridden than usual; Marty scanned the streets for police lights and crime-scene tape, but the neighborhood was quiet and clear. Doc pulled up in front of the McFly residence, leaning toward Marty as the passenger door opened.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" he asked, frowning. "You really don't look that well."

"I'm gonna be just fine," Marty reassured him, patting Doc's arm, and then remembered to retrieve his shirt, suspenders, life preserver (he'd never be able to think of the vest as anything else), and both jackets (maybe the leather one from 1955 could be dried out). "Best-case scenario, it's just like the last time I did this: Dad's a big-shot writer, Mom's a successful real-estate agent, Dave's got a fancy office job, and Linda works in some swanky boutique. Worst-case scenario, we're all losers like before."

"You're not a loser, Marty," Doc said, waving him off. "I never needed time travel to confirm that."

"G'night, Doc," Marty said, waving back, shutting the door for him. "Go home, get some sleep!"

"I won't until this damn thing's been dismantled," said Doc, resolutely. "Get some rest yourself."

Thirty seconds later, once Marty had managed to sneak through the gate and back to his open bedroom window, if he thought he'd heard the telltale crackle- _whoosh_ of the DeLorean taking off for points decidedly _beyond_ third-dimensional, he put it firmly out of his head. His sheets needed changing—Doc was right, he had the habit of leaving food wrappers and soda cans lying around—but the bed had never looked so inviting.

He dropped his time-travel clothes in a pile on the floor and, not even bothering to remove his t-shirt and jeans, face-planted on his pillow.

Just like he'd expected he would, Marty woke up disoriented about nine hours later. His groggy mind had the few seconds it took him to walk through the hall and into the space between kitchen and living-room to remember that he had seen the spiffy interior decorating before, that it wasn't wise to react with shock. He was still rattled at the unfamiliarity of it all, but he managed to return his jet-setting siblings' good-morning greetings without demanding _What the hell is this?_

"Honey, you look sick," Lorraine declared no sooner than she'd gotten in the door from her weekly tennis match with George in tow; she scolded Linda for muttering about how she'd treat Marty like a baby until he was forty. "I'm glad you're getting some fruit in you for breakfast. All those Whoppers and pizzas you and Doc Brown subsist on down at the lab _can't_ be healthy."

"Why don't you give this to him next time you see him, son?" George asked, bringing a freshly-signed copy of his novel over to the table as Biff, completely subservient, bowed out to finish the waxing after setting Marty's truck-keys at his elbow on the table. "As a man of science, I hope he'd do me the honor of reviewing this for the local paper. That column of his is _such_ a hit."

"Wait, what?" Marty said, unsuccessfully trying to dislodge Lorraine's hand from his forehead. "Doc's got a _newspaper_ column? Since when?" He poked his grapefruit. _Does Doc even know?_

"George, we had better call the doctor," said Lorraine, worriedly. "I think he's running a fever."

"Now, Lorraine," George sighed, reaching over to test Marty's forehead for himself. "Let's not overreact. Feels like he just slept in his clothes with too many covers on to me." He sighed and set his hands on his hips nonetheless. "If you're not feeling well, maybe you should postpone the lake."

 _The lake_ , Marty thought, clutching at the keys Biff had left for him. _Holy shit, I almost forgot._

"Dad's right, Marty," said Linda, rising from her chair to follow Dave out the door. "God forbid you should infect that nice Parker girl if you're contagious. Do us all a favor and quarantine yourself."

"I'm not sick," Marty insisted, but the sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of _actually going_ suggested that canceling really _did_ sound like a great idea. "And I'm not gonna cancel. Jennifer's been looking forward to this for, for—" he snagged the edge of a memory, dredging it up just in time "—two _weeks_. No way am I gonna let her down. How would you feel if—" he trawled his woefully scattered thoughts again, the first iteration of this overwhelming morning replaying itself "—Greg or Craig did something like that to you, huh?"

"You may be my darling brother, but you're still a brat," said Linda, tartly, and walked out.

"Yeah, uh, Dad," said Marty, patting the back of the book he'd been handed. "I'll give it to him."

"I don't like how erratic Doc's been lately," said Lorraine, slicing a grapefruit for her and George to share. "First he isn't around for a week, leaving his gadgets in your care," she continued, "and now here he is keeping you out till all hours on a Friday—oh, _Marty._ I _know_ you snuck out."

 _Sure you do,_ Marty thought, staring at his hands. _You were as bad as I can only ever hope to be._

"Chin up, Marty," said George, clapping his son's shoulder. "You'll feel better after a shower and coffee. Why don't I have Biff load the sleeping bags and cooler in the truck while you do that?"

Lorraine muttered under her breath, all the while trying her best to hide an indulgent smile.

"Thanks, Dad," Marty replied, fearing his heart wasn't in it. "You're the best. Both of you."

Marty felt better once he'd taken a shower and changed his clothes, although he turned down George's offer of coffee on grounds to which he didn't explicitly admit: his stomach felt _awful_. Guilt twisted with apprehension made it almost impossible for him to focus on packing his overnight bag; he hadn't even finished doing _that_ when the doorbell rang just before noon.

"Marty!" his mother called from the living-room. "Your charming Miss Parker has arrived!"

"Be out in a minute!" Marty shouted, cringing as he heard Jennifer demur in response to his mother's affectionate flattery. "I'm just, _ah_ —" his fingers shook as he grabbed the box of condoms Jennifer had picked up and slipped him the week before, stuffing it into the bag "—finishing up."

He came out with his backpack slung over one shoulder, hoping he didn't look like death warmed over because he hadn't slept much in the past—seven days, eight days, _nine_? How many days across how many years had he lived in the space of twenty-four hours of _real_ time, anyway?

"Hey, stranger," said Jennifer, grinning as she rose from the sofa where she'd been sitting beside Lorraine. "How about a ride?" She came over and pecked him on the cheek when Marty made no move to react. "Do we need to pick up anything on the way? Hot dogs, stuff for s'mores?"

"You're all set," George volunteered from the table, still eating grapefruit. "The Toyota's packed."

"Thanks, Dad," said Marty, shrugging, giving Jennifer his most convincing everything's-great-and-we're-gonna-do-this look. "I guess we're outta here. You crazy kids behave while I'm gone."

Lorraine gave him a strange, fleeting glance as she got up and came over to hug him goodbye.

"Sometimes I can't believe you're grown," she sighed. "I feel like I've only ever seen you like this, like you were never my little boy, like raising you was a dream all along! Be _safe_ , sweetie."

"Yeah, Ma," he said, taking Jennifer's hand, leading her toward the door. "We will, I promise."

Once they were outside, Marty couldn't help but notice that Jennifer's demeanor had changed. The smile she'd been wearing had seemed genuine enough, but it melted almost as soon as Marty led her into the garage and hefted both of their bags into the back of the truck. The cooler and sleeping bags were there, just as George had promised. Marty opened the passenger door for Jennifer and helped her get in, but he didn't close it behind her. He walked around to the driver's side like a man gallows-bound, circles and circles and _circles_ of car doors across decades opening—

"Marty, you look terrible," Jennifer said, touching the back of his neck with cool, perfunctory fingers as he backed them out into the driveway. "Didn't you sleep well last night?"

"Me?" Marty asked, shrugging her off. "Get out of town, I slept _fine_. What about you?"

"I had a really strange dream," she said slowly, her eyes flicking nervously between the rear-view window and Marty's hands on the steering wheel as they got on the road in earnest. "That's all."

They hardly spoke for the rest of the ride. There wasn't much set-up once they reached their destination; the lake-shore was picturesque and quiet, and there was both a place to pull up the truck and a fire circle with ancient, rust-rimed grill framework for cooking. Jennifer busied herself with spreading sleeping bags in the back of the truck while Marty sized up the job of starting a fire even though it was only one in the afternoon.

He'd hoped to do some fishing, but Jennifer would just wrinkle her nose and say there was no need given they had hot dogs. Doc _enjoyed_ fishing.

"Marty, come over here," she demanded after about half an hour of both of them performing their self-assigned tasks in solitude, so Marty put down the tinder he'd been feeding the flames and wandered over to the truck. The back was down, and Jennifer was seated inside it, lounging on top of the spread sleeping bags. She had a magazine open in her lap, maybe the latest issue of _Cosmo_ , but she looked troubled. "I think we should talk about something. I can't stop thinking—"

"Was it the dream you had?" Marty asked, feeling something like relief start to bloom in his chest, settling down cross-legged beside her. "Sure, tell me about what happened. I wanna hear it."

"It was the strangest thing," said Jennifer, staring out across the calm surface of the water. "It felt so _real_ , Marty. You were there, and Doc Brown was there, too. It was today. We were about to leave for the lake, but Doc pulled up in this weird-looking car and said we had to go with him somewhere. Something to do with our kids, yours and mine. We got in the car and we flew—God, I wish I was kidding, but we fucking _flew_ —to the future. We were married there," she said, looking him straight in the eye, and she looked even more despondent than before. "We had an ordinary house in a second-rate neighborhood, and we had two late-teen or twentysomething kids. A boy and a girl. I can't remember their names. Anyway, we were there because Doc said they were going to get in trouble if we didn't do something about it. I had to hide in a closet to avoid running into myself. I saw you through the slats, saw you get chewed out by a co-worker and your boss, and then _fired_. Your hand was wrecked because you'd been in an accident or something. You couldn't play the guitar anymore." There were tears running down Jennifer's cheeks now, and Marty was powerless to do anything but offer her the handkerchief he'd picked up in the fifties.

"That sounds, uh, kinda intense," said Marty, gravely. "But dreams are weird like that, right?"

Jennifer wiped her eyes and blew her nose, setting the handkerchief aside. "Would you listen to what I'm saying? There was this picture in the entryway. We were married in that two-bit, tacky Chapel O' Love in _Vegas_ , for crying out loud." She reached over and covered Marty's hand, where it rested on his thigh, with her own. "What I'm trying to say is that we were _miserable_."

 _You knew this was coming_ , Marty told himself. _She's seen you for what you are now, for how much you've changed even if she doesn't have a clue how it's happened, and she wants out._

"Jennifer, I—" he swallowed, bringing her hand up to his lips "—I can't tell you how sorry—"

"Jesus Christ, Marty," said Jennifer, laughing through her tears, and let him kiss her knuckle briefly before occupying her hands with the magazine again, "why are _you_ apologizing to _me_? I'm the one who took one look down the rabbit-hole and decided she wasn't going to be your Alice."

"Fuck," Marty said. "Fuck my _life_." He set his chin in his hands, wiping away a few stray tears of his own. "What are we gonna do? This isn't exactly the romantic evening we'd hoped—"

"I'll tell you, mister," she said, offering Marty his handkerchief. "We're going to have a cook-out, because you've been one of the best friends I could ask for. You're going to tell me all about your plans for that tape, how you're too chicken to send it out," she said with deliberate emphasis on _chicken_ , goddamn it, "and I'm going to tell you about my college applications."

"That," said Marty, blowing his nose noisily, grinning through his tears, "is a _great_ idea."

While dusk fell, as they ate hot-dogs garnished with his mom's cheap ketchup and his dad's expensive mustard, Marty tried not to think about how Doc would be commenting on the lack of light pollution and pointing out constellation after constellation. Jennifer was applying to Smith, Wesleyan, and Barnard out East; he should've guessed her interest in literature would eventually lead to a major in English. She'd always talked about Pomona and Stanford before, at least when they'd started dating at the beginning of junior year, but they were seniors now.

"You can _play_ ," Jennifer insisted. "I've seen you. I've heard you. Please send that tape."

"You and Doc are two peas in a pod," Marty sighed. "I'll do it for the guys, but for _me_?" He shook his head. "I'm passionate about music, but I don't know what I want," he said. "How sad is that?"

"Maybe you should think about science or engineering," said Jennifer. "I've never seen you more motivated than when you talk about Doc and his experiments. You enjoy helping him. That's something."

 _I don't just enjoy it_ , Marty thought, answering with a shrug. _I pretty much fucking_ love _it_.

They finished eating just as night fell in its entirety, hands and lips sticky with marshmallow remnants, chocolate, and tear-tracks. Once they'd re-packed the truck and washed up as best they could in the sunfish-rippled shallows, Marty kissed Jennifer for the last time by starlight.

"Let's get you home," he said, smoothing her hair. "You were wrong about my mom. She kept me more respectable than she could've ever guessed. I'm nowhere near the hellraiser _she_ was."

"You know what?" Jennifer said, ruffling Marty's playfully in return. "I can believe that."

Jennifer's father, malingering on the porch swing with a can of beer, was all too happy to see his daughter home before morning.

Marty handed Jennifer her bag, hugged her, and wished them a good night. He wasn't sure why he welled up again once he was back in the truck; he was tired as hell, sure, but he ought to be _relieved_ that the burden of initiating the break-up had been lifted from his shoulders. He knew deep down that he was, but it still felt like a stupid thing to cry about. 

Marty had mostly regained his composure by the time he got home, but it was scattered to the wind again at the sight of a lone figure sitting hunched on his front porch with a glowing cigarette held up to its lips. He put the truck in the garage and yanked the door shut, too tired to worry about hauling his shit inside. Lorraine stood up from where she'd been sitting and flicked ash at the ground.

"My sweet baby boy," she said, an eerily forlorn echo of that morning. "Marty, what happened?"

"What the hell is this, huh?" Marty blurted, gesturing wildly at the cigarette. "You still smoke?"

"What do you mean _still_?" replied Lorraine, flicking it aside in the grass before she came over to put her arms around him. "I didn't think you knew. _Well_. It's been an occasional indulgence for years, and _only_ in moderation." She stroked his hair, kissing his forehead with her smoky lips.

"Does dad know?" Marty asked, sighing as he sagged into her embrace. "Mom? _Does_ he?"

"Are you kidding?" Lorraine asked, her voice gilded with the slightest hint of a giggle. "Not only does he know, he even _joins_ me once in a while. Proper writers live it up once every so often, he says."

"You guys have gotta be careful," said Marty, squeezing her before letting go. "I don't want you dying on me, don't want you going and getting, I don't know, liver cancer or lung cancer or—"

"Sweetie, you're in _tears_ ," said Lorraine, wiping his cheek with her thumb. "What happened?"

"Aw, _nothing_ ," Marty sighed, sitting down heavily on the stoop. "Me and Jennifer broke up."

"Oh, that's _awful_ ," said Lorraine, resuming her former seat beside him. "She was a nice girl."

"We weren't good for each other, Ma," Marty replied, and then thought better of his phrasing. "We realized we _wouldn't_ have been good for each other in the long run," he clarified. "People change."

"Don't I know it," Lorraine sighed, pulling the pack of Dunhills and a lighter from her pocket. She lit up another cigarette, considering Marty briefly; the street-lamp was a haunted gleam in her eyes, and Marty could see that she looked, for the briefest instant, afraid. "There were a couple of times before you were born," she said, offering Marty the cigarette, "when I wasn't sure if your father and I were going to make it. Writing is hard," she said. "College is hard, kids are hard, _life_ is hard."

 _What the hell_ , Marty thought, and took the cigarette. One drag was enough to send him choking.

"I think I'm gonna turn in," he coughed, handing it back to her. "You and Dad are solid, I'm not worried," he said, patting her on the shoulder as he went up the steps. "It's me I've gotta work out."

"Good night, Marty," said Lorraine, her tone wistful, but it was lost to closing the door behind him.

Marty brushed his teeth until his gums bled, scrubbed his face with Linda's exfoliant until his cheeks and his forehead shone pink. Even though he'd showered earlier, he still felt gritty from days of sweat and tears and standing around in hard rain. He stripped down to his t-shirt and underwear, tossed his clothes in the hamper, crossed the hall to his room, and slammed the door.

He fleetingly thought of cleaning up the candy-wrappers on the nightstand and the Pepsi Free can above his headboard bookshelves, but the framed photo of Jennifer next to the can caught his eye and held it. He picked up the photo and stared at it for a few seconds before sticking it in the nightstand drawer. He swept the wrappers into his overflowing trash, reaching for the phone.

Marty flopped on his back, tucked the receiver between chin and shoulder, and reached over to dial Doc's number by heart. _555-6467_. It rang once, twice, three times. It rang and rang and _rang_ —

 _Marty!_ said Doc's answering machine, as different, and just as personalized, as it had been every other time Marty had rung through to find nobody home. _I don't want you to worry; I'm just taking care of a few things that needed wrapping up. It'll all be done soon, I promise. Leave a message._

"That isn't reassuring, Doc," said Marty, wearily. "I hope for your sake you're just passed out asleep while Einstein licks up what's left of your dinner or something. _Please_ call me as soon as you can."

 _I need to know you aren't taking one last joyride in the DeLorean without me_ , he thought as he drifted off, _or worse._

 

 

**October 31, 1985**

Marty skated home from school in a dangerously foul mood, praying he wouldn't be the only one on hand to man the treat-bowl in service of the inevitable, candy-seeking Halloween hordes. He propped his skateboard just inside the door as he kicked out of his sneakers, calling for each of his family members one by one; George returned the greeting, voice distant from his study down the hall.

"Don't answer the door for any early trick-or-treaters!" he shouted. "We'll only start giving out candy once your mother and Dave get home! They have the most fun with it anyway, don't they?"

"Uh—yeah, Dad!" Marty replied, abandoning his backpack in favor of flopping down on the sofa with the remote control. His memories were still from a time when his father was the doormat who took care of this kind of thing by default. "What about Linda? Is she working late tonight?"

"You know your sister!" George called back. "She probably has dinner and a movie lined up with Craig!"

Marty turned on the television and started mindlessly flipping channels. The brief exchange with his father hadn't really been enough to keep his anger in check; at this point, he'd been trying to get through to Doc for five or six fucking _days_ , but to no avail. He'd spent most of Sunday the twenty-seventh fiddling with his guitar and sound equipment in between attempts at calling Doc, and, one of those times, the answering-machine message had changed: _Marty, I know this must seem highly irregular, but please bear with me. Things will settle by mid-week. Einie and I miss you._

 _Yeah, right,_ Marty had thought, slamming down the phone without leaving a message.

Monday through Wednesday had been somewhat more bearable on account of school kicking back in as a distraction, although he hadn't been able to concentrate much on homework. Grandma Sylvia had fussed over him on Monday evening, pushing everything from Chips Ahoy to homemade rhubarb pie on him. He'd tried calling Doc again once he'd gotten home and had gotten Sunday's message; he'd even tried dropping by the lab Tuesday night after jamming with the guys, but neither Doc, nor Einstein had been anywhere in evidence.

(While Doc's van had been parked outside, the DeLorean had been conspicuously absent.)

After about twenty minutes of restless channel-surfing, Marty concluded that this week's Thursday afternoon programming had absolutely nothing to offer him. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the placid, cream-painted ceiling until spots ceased to swim in his field of vision. It was only about four-thirty, and he was already feeling peckish. He wandered back the hall with his hands in his pockets and asked his father if he wanted to share a sandwich; George looked up from his typewriter and said he'd like that. Marty was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on their chipped-ham-tomato-cheddar special when the doorbell rang with repeated, erratic impatience.

"Nuh-uh," he said, cutting the sandwich in half; he put the slightly larger portion on a second plate and carried it down the hall to his father. All the while, the doorbell kept ringing, and as he went back into the kitchen to get his own share, the doorbell racket gave way to voices.

"Dad, you're a butthead!" shouted a boy that Marty placed at about nine or ten years old. "You said somebody would be home. You said we'd get a chance at the _good_ stuff before anyone else."

"Yeah, _butthead_ ," echoed a second child of about the same age, probably also a boy. Marty was two bites into his sandwich and morbidly curious, so he went to the window and peered through the crack in the curtain. The boys were recognizably dressed as Calvin and Hobbes, which was clever, although it wasn't all that cute given the one dressed as Hobbes was laying back on the doorbell.

Biff was standing behind them, rubbing his temples, and there was someone standing on the other side of him who Marty couldn't quite make out. He'd known Biff had a few kids, but he'd only ever seen one of them: Tiffany, called Tiff, was in junior high. She was also painfully shy and kept to herself, although she seemed to keep cafeteria company with a select number of other outcasts.

"You buttheads won't get a damn _thing_ if you keep that up," said Biff, smacking them both lightly upside the head, which brought the doorbell-abuse to an end. Marty let the curtain fall back in place, ate a few more rushed bites, and decided to take pity on the Tannen offspring.

"Hey," he said, opening the door, "neat costumes, boys." Biff sized him up warily before switching into make-nice-with-the-boss's-son mode, giving Marty a sheepish wave. Marty nodded at him and realized with some shock that the person dressed in a lab-coat, haphazard white mad-scientist wig, and sneakers very much like the ones Doc wore _was_ , in fact, Tiff. "Ah, wow, and _you_ —"

"Nobody gets it," said Tiff, sighing. "My parents didn't. I'm Doctor Emmett Brown. You know, the scientist with the newspaper column?" She squinted at Marty from underneath her heavy make-up. "Are you the one who works for him? Dad says one of Mr. McFly's sons knows Doc Brown."

"That'll be me," Marty said, squinting right back at her before transferring his confusion over her father. "Hey, Biff," he said. "How's it going? Getting a head-start? Wanna bring the kids inside?"

"Sure, but just for a minute," replied Biff, ingratiatingly, "and only if your dad's not too busy!"

Letting them in was a huge mistake. The twins, Doug and Don, immediately zeroed in on the sofa for purposes of jumping on it. Biff went back the hall looking for George, vaguely citing the need to discuss work on one of the cars with him. Marty was left to stand awkwardly eating the rest of his sandwich while Tiff tried for five minutes to get her brothers under control before giving up.

"It's hopeless," said Tiff, glumly, shuffling back over to stand beside Marty. She was as tall as he was, lanky, and actually pulled off the costume reasonably well. "They _are_ buttheads. My dad, too. Even my mom sometimes." She stared at her feet. "One big dysfunctional family of buttheads."

"Hey, don't look so down," Marty said, swallowing the last mouthful of his sandwich. "My family's had plenty of issues, too. This kind of crap improves as you get older and gain more perspective. And if it doesn't get better, it at least gets easier to understand. Trust me on this."

Tiff nodded reluctantly, glancing up at Marty. "Did you really meet Doc Brown because you tried sneaking into his lab when you were my age?" she asked. "That's the rumor at school, anyway. I kinda thought you were this nerdy rock-star wannabe until I heard that."

Marty reviewed his memories and found that to be consistent with the old set; now, that wasn't the case. "Nah," he said, recalling what Doc had confided in him during some down-time in 2015. "The truth is more boring than fiction. My parents had been acquainted with him for years because my dad used him as an occasional research consultant on his sci-fi stories, and when he needed somebody to stop by in the afternoons and walk Einstein—uh, his dog—while he was still teaching at Hill Valley Community College, I looked like a logical choice. Hell, I think my dad even _volunteered_ me. After a few months, I started to help him with experiments."

"I want to be a scientist when I grow up," Tiff said. "Do you think I could meet him? I want to ask for his advice on my science fair project."

Marty grinned at her, and then carried his plate over to the sink. The boys were still horsing around on the sofa, and his mom was going to be pissed if they left scuff-marks. "Come by the lab some Saturday morn—ah, well, not _this_ Saturday morning, because Doc's kinda busy. Let's try that again: come by the lab in a couple of weeks, and we'll see what we can do."

Lorraine walked in the door just in time to see Tiff, dressed like Hill Valley's favorite mad scientist, squeaking and hugging Marty even as her twin brothers burst into a screaming cushion-fight on the sofa. Marty gave his mother a resigned look, patting Tiff's arm as he gently shrugged her off.

Lorraine closed her eyes for a few seconds, as if counting to ten in order to dampen her fury, and then went in the kitchen to fetch the candy-bowl she'd prepared the night before. "Unless you quiet down," she said, raising her voice to Stern Mom Mode, "and get off that sofa this instant, I can think of one little boy and one stuffed tiger who _won't_ be getting any treats."

The Tannen boys both stopped mid-swing, scrabbling over each other to get across the living-room and over to Lorraine. Tiff covered her eyes and muttered about wanting someone to wake her up when it was over. _Me too_ , Marty thought, edging away from the chaos and toward the front door; it was too easy to jam his feet back into his shoes, grab his skateboard, and stealthily slip out.

 _Jesus, Doc, I can't turn around without a reminder that I'm worried sick about you_ , he thought.

He opted for the non-car-snagging method of skating over to Doc's place, because he needed time to think. If he was lucky enough to catch Doc at home, then God only knew how tempted he'd be to explode on Doc in a fit of pent-up temper. He rocked up at the gate, flipping his skateboard, finding it unlocked. He didn't even need to fetch the key from under the mat; Doc's front door was ajar.

"Knock knock," Marty said, noting the DeLorean parked next to the van in the side-lot as he pushed through the door. Just past the clocks and the mechanical dog feeder, Doc was seated on the edge of the twin bed (which had been cleaned up and haphazardly made, Marty noted) with what looked like an old, fragile vintage ledger-book in his lap. He snapped it shut when Marty entered, startled.

"Marty!" he exclaimed, rising with an undeniably guilty expression, setting the ledger aside. "I wasn't expecting you'd turn up till the weekend. Why didn't you call first?"

"Because you haven't been answering your goddamn phone, Doc," Marty said, advancing on him angrily. "Those attempts at reassuring messages were a nice touch, though. Thanks for that."

Doc cringed, rubbing his forehead. "Just give me a few more days," he said pleadingly. "Seventy-two hours at most,  _maybe_ another week. This will all make sense, I promise. I'll explain everything."

"You've been taking some final trips without me, haven't you, Doc?" Marty demanded, jabbing his right index finger right into Doc's chest. "Risking your life, and probably Einstein's, too, just to see a few more times and places because you're too fucking curious to let it rest. Have you ever heard of Pandora's Box? Just how many more times will you open it, huh?"

Doc closed his eyes in defeat, both of his hands flying reflexively to cover Marty's right over his heart. "If everything goes according to plan, only a few more times," he said. "Marty, you have _got_ to trust me. Risking my neck and Einie's is preferable to risking yours."

Marty swallowed and took a step back, but Doc's grip on his hand didn't loosen. Marty made no move to pull away, not just yet. Doc was staring at him with a frightened intensity that made him feel kind of sorry for his outburst, but it still didn't excuse Doc's evasiveness.

"I worry about you as much as you worry about me," he told Doc, taking two steps forward this time, seized by the certainty that he ought to have done a long time ago what he had just _now_ resolved to do. Doc shivered slightly and leaned into the warm, dry press of Marty's lips against his own, too stunned to speak. "Don't you dare forget it, okay?" Marty said, and pulled back, hand and all, to leave Doc standing there with eyes wide as saucers. "I'm gonna leave you to this bullshit, whatever it is, but I swear, Doc—the next time I see you, you'd better be ready to come clean."

"Marty, _wait_ —" said Doc, but it was useless. Marty was already out the door and past the gate, taking a hard turn before he found a convenient tail-gate on which to hitch a ride. He felt too shaken to go home, of that much he was sure; the breeze in his hair in no way calmed his pulse.

 _Holy shit, you did it,_ he thought. _You actually did what you what you'd desperately wanted to do that night in '55, and you're not even sorry. Get a grip, McFly. This isn't Alice in Wonderland; this is reality._

Giddy disbelief turned to motion-sick hunger pangs in Marty's stomach as the Suburban on which he'd hitched a ride took a sharp corner and cruised along Hill Valley's courthouse square. Realizing that he needed to eat something else, but reluctant to return home now that the streets were starting to fill with costumed rugrats of all stripes, Marty swung up short when he noticed that what had been Goldie's aerobics studio in his original version of reality was now a diner just like it had been in 1955 and in 2015. _Courthouse Café_ , he read off the sign: not terribly original, but not inaccurate, either. He propped his skateboard just inside the door as he entered.

Marty took a stool at the bar and perused the laminated menu that was sitting in front of him. They had nachos with chili, so he was sold. After ordering some of that and a Pepsi Free from the waitress (thank God for being back in a decade where people spoke his language), he took a look around. There was an old guy in a Mountain Dew baseball cap that he could've sworn he recognized from somewhere sitting next to the window with a newspaper, and seated at the next booth over was—

 _Holy hell_ , he thought. _That's Mayor Goldie Wilson. He's eating alone in a goddamn diner when he could have a reservation up at the Bluebird? That's either cool or sad, but I'm not sure which._ Marty wandered over to Goldie's table and cleared his throat, trying not to come off as creepy.

"Hello there, young man," said Goldie, smiling at him. "What can I do for you? An autograph?"

"Nah," said Marty, and then straightened his posture. "Ah, _sir._ I just wanted to—to wish you a Happy Halloween," he stammered, because he hadn't really planned ahead of his spur-of-the-moment curiosity, "and to thank you for everything you've done to serve this community. And I do mean _everything_." Marty imagined he could see Lou glowering from behind the counter as plain as day; in his head, he flipped off the apparition.

"That's kind of you," said Goldie, patting the table for emphasis. "You're most welcome. Why don't you join me? We'll shelter from the trick-or-treating madness together. What's your name?"

"Marty," said Marty, fetching the Pepsi his waitress had left in front of his former seat, hastening over to slide into the booth across from Goldie. "Marty McFly. You might know my dad, he's— "

"George McFly, yes indeed," Goldie said. "I'm reading that brand-new novel. Already better than the short-story collections, and those were _great_. You tell him to keep up he good work down at Hill Valley Community College, my son's in his History of American Sci-Fi class and loving it."

 _Dammit_ , Marty thought, taking a sip of Pepsi to cover his consternation. _I forgot to take the book to Doc._ "I'll tell him, sir," Marty replied."

"You seem a bit down, my friend," said Goldie. "Is there anything I can do to help? Listen to you take a load off, if nothing else? You might say I have an awful lot of past experience."

"I know," Marty said. "My parents, they used to—they _told_ me you used to work here back in the day. They said there was no-one better for words of encouragement. You gave my dad some sorely needed advice once, and I think it made all the difference."

"That's right," replied Goldie, with that spark Marty had encountered in him thirty years ago. "I told him to have some respect for himself, to stand up to those bullies, and sure enough, decades on, that Biff Tannen's waxing his car. It pays off, Marty. Have enough respect for yourself to stand up for what you believe in and to reach for your dreams."

"What if I'm afraid that what I want is going to hurt somebody else?" asked Marty, before he lost the nerve. "I, _uh_ —I did something without thinking about it, without asking the other person first," he explained, "and instead of hanging around to deal with it, I ran. What's more, I'm afraid I've only been thinking of myself for like the past _week_. I should've been more understanding, right?"

Goldie tucked his long fingers under his chin, lost in thought. "Next time you see this person," he said, "the best thing you can do is be ready to listen to their side of things with an open mind. Now, let's hush up so you can start your supper and I can finish. Those nachos look mighty fine."

They spent the remainder of their meal shooting the shit on topics as far-ranging as Hill Valley Back in the Day and the Brown family's influence on their town. Doc had been writing the column since the late '70s, and only in the past five years or so had it really taken off. As he bade Goldie farewell, realizing he'd been there for over two hours, Marty made a mental note to ask Doc if he could remember the timeline in which he _hadn't_ been the author of a successful science column. He was guessing not, judging by the fact that Doc's memory of first meeting Marty now consisted of meeting him as a seventeen year-old in 1955 before being re-introduced to him about a month before Marty's fifteenth birthday in 1983.

Back at the house, Marty found a curious absence of the parties who'd been present when he'd left—all _except_ for his father. It turned out that Biff had been too sheepish to admit he needed to work some extra hours in the auto shop; George hadn't had the heart to tell him that Lorraine and Dave would prefer _not_ to take the twins and Tiff trick-or-treating, so that accounted for where everyone had gone. Linda hadn't come home from her date yet, and apparently sometimes she just _didn't_.

"Jeez, Dad," Marty sighed, setting his hand on the back of the armchair, not quite touching George's shoulder while George glanced back down at the academic article he was reading. "Never thought I'd see the day when Linda and Dave arguably have busier social lives than I do."

George looked up at him, reaching back to pat Marty's hand. "You've always been the quieter type by comparison, son, you know that. You've got your band, and you'd been spending a lot of time with Jennifer until recently, and you've got Doc. That's your world if you want it to be, so don't let anybody make you feel like you're missing out on anything. Why, all I had was my stories and the inside of my own head for years. I don't think I turned out poorly for it, do _you_?"

"No," said Marty, and squeezed George's hand before letting go. "By the way—I ran into the Mayor tonight at Courthouse Café. He's enjoying the book, and he says his son loves your class."

"Louis is one of my best students," replied George. "That was kind of him to pass along. I'll have your mother send flowers and a campaign donation. A second Wilson term is just what we need."

"Have a good night," said Marty, yawning for emphasis; he knew George would go on and on if he didn't drive his point home. "Still feeling under the weather. I'm gonna turn in."

"Good night, Marty," replied George, turning his attention back to his article. "I'll make sure we save you some Sour Patch Kids. I know you look forward to those this time of year."

Marty shut his bedroom door and leaned back against it, fumbling aimlessly at the lock until he felt it throw. He was tired, sure, but not tired enough to sleep. Tired in _mind_ was more like it, tired in thought and in heart. He stripped down to his underthings and went over to make sure his window was firmly closed and his curtains drawn. He'd left the bed unmade as usual, but at least there weren't wrappers all over the place anymore, and his mother had been through to dust. He lay down and closed his eyes, trying to clear his conscience, but there was little point in the exercise.

 _Doc._ He thought of Doc's expression the moment he'd pulled away from the kiss; he replayed that split-second over and over again, trying to read Doc's eyes. Beneath the undisguised dismay, he hadn't detected anything resembling disgust. Far from it, actually, the more he considered it. _Marty, wait_ —he'd high-tailed it out of there before Doc had been able to finish his sentence. There'd been an urgency in those words, a sense of wait-don't-go-I-want-to-say-something. He imagined Doc, oblivious to Eisntein's concerned whimpers, staring at the door after he'd departed.

Marty thought about Doc jerking off alone in his bed and didn't know whether he wanted to cry or to come. Maybe both. Marty couldn't ignore the fact he was hard, so he worked his hand into his underwear and thought about what it might be like if Doc was touching him instead. His orgasm took him by surprise, swift and intense and _such_ a relief. He groaned, burying his face in the pillow.

Marty lay panting, trying to pull his thoughts into order. He wanted Doc, that much was apparent. Maybe he even _loved_ Doc in a dimension that went beyond the obvious, platonic third. Thinking fourth-dimensionally, he was faced with the prospect of a partner who might die long before he ever did, unless all that shit Doc had said about adding thirty years to his life-expectancy was true. Doc was sixty-five, but he was a _spry_ sixty-five. At worst, Marty would only have around ten more years with him; at best, thirty to fifty. He tried to imagine Doc at ninety-five, or even _beyond_ that, and smiled. If anyone he knew could live past a hundred without really trying, he was sure it'd be Doc.

 _This is a goddamn mess_ , Marty thought, rummaging on the floor for his box of tissues. _So Doc's lab is preferable to the Chapel O' Love, check. At least we've learned something useful tonight.  God, I miss him.  I should've stayed._

He didn't fall asleep for some time, because he was pretty sure he'd have to be more careful with this than he'd ever been with anything else in the entirety of his _life_. Still, it was a calculated risk, and he was nothing if not a risk-taker at heart when the stakes were high enough to matter.

 

 

**November 7, 1985**

Seven days. That's how long Marty had gone without attempting to call Doc, and it had been seven fucking days too many. He'd spent a miserable weekend listening to his mom and Dave bitch about what a handful the Tannen twins had been and Linda go on about how hot Craig was.

On Wednesday at school, he'd had lunch with Jennifer. She'd pulled the same magic intuitive maneuver as Goldie and had gotten him to open up a little about what was bugging him without pressing for names or specifics. After school, he'd headed over to Trav's place with the rest of the Pinheads and jammed for a few hours in the basement. He'd come home late for dinner; his parents had fussed.

He wasn't sure he knew what day it was, let alone what _time_ , when his phone rang early on Thursday morning. It was pre-alarm-clock-time, definitely, because he missed the phone on his first attempt to grab it off the nightstand. He finally wrestled it over to his ear and mumbled, "H'lo?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, Marty," said Doc, carefully, "but I wanted you to know I'm back."

"You mean it?" Marty asked, rolling onto his back, rubbing his eyes one-handed. "No more skipping off to see San Francisco in 1906 before it gets leveled, or any other awesome shit like that?"

"I assure you that you would have found these trips tiresome in the extreme," replied Doc.

"What does this mean, exactly?" Marty asked, by now fully awake. "You're ready to talk?"

"Yes," confirmed Doc, contritely enough for Marty's liking. "I'd like to tell you everything."

"I've got school today, remember?" said Marty. "But I'm gonna move heaven and earth to get over there if I can, just so you know. Sit tight, Doc. I'm working on it," he added, and hung up.

Marty lay in bed for another ten minutes or so, experiencing a crisis of conscience, before his alarm went off. Five minutes beyond his alarm, Lorraine came and knocked on his door.

"Marty, your sister's going to steal the bathroom if you don't get in there," she said.

"Ma, can you come in here?" Marty asked, hunching under the covers. "Please?"

"Sweetheart, you sound tired," said Lorraine, there in a heartbeat. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't sleep so well last night," Marty replied, which was true. "I'm afraid I'd just snooze through everything if I went to school today. Can you call up the principal's office or something?"

"You haven't missed a day in months, so I don't see why not," said Lorraine. "Poor Marty."

"Don't you have house showings starting in like thirty minutes?" Marty asked. "I mean, if you could do it before you leave, that would be great. It's just—Strickland, won't he call me a slacker?"

"Not with grades and attendance like yours," replied Lorraine, genuinely puzzled. "You may not get straight As, but you've had nothing below B-minus. He just thinks your music is unfortunate."

 _Oh my God_ , Marty thought, regarding the stacks and stacks of books in his bedstead shelves. _I was never a terrible student, sure, but in this timeline it looks like I'm closer to a chip off the old block._

"I'll take care of it on my way out the door," said Lorraine, bending to ruffle Marty's hair against the pillow. "Don't you worry about a thing."

"Thanks," Marty sighed, and closed his eyes to wait. Sometimes it felt like waiting was all he ever did: wait for so-and-so to show up at such-and-such time in such-and-such place so he could intercept them, wait for Doc to fix the flux capacitor so he wouldn't be stuck, wait for Doc to show up in the DeLorean and save his ass. Surely he could wait another half-hour till his mom left.  
  
Fortunately, Lorraine was prompt. Both the phone-call (muffled out in the kitchen, surprisingly brief) and his mother's departure happened inside twenty minutes. Marty got up once he heard the front door close and took the quickest, most thorough shower of his life. He was a lot of things, but careless about hygiene was _not_ one of them; even Doc had seemed uncomfortable in his skin after too many hard hours on the run through time. They were both slobs about their living and work-spaces, but at least staying clean was a shared priority.  
  
Marty borrowed Dave's rusty old bike instead of taking his skateboard. He didn't want to risk being waylaid by a stern police officer on the off-chance it was a heavy patrol day. He needed to get to Doc's swiftly, and that's exactly what he did. He stowed the bike between the nose of Doc's van and the wall of the garage, hoping that would deter anyone who might decide to attempt making off with it. On second thought, he went back over to the gate and snapped the padlock shut, hoping to God that Doc would remember the combination. Failing that, they had bolt-cutters.  
  
Doc's front door was locked, and just fetching the key from underneath the mat like he usually would have done somehow felt inconsiderate. What he did next was something he hadn't bothered with in months, unless you counted last week in 1955: he actually _knocked_.  
  
Doc answered, looking like _he_ hadn't been sleeping that well, either. Come to think of it, he probably hadn't slept _at all._

"I'm glad to see you, Marty," he said, breaking into a tired, relieved, _welcoming_ smile. "Come in."  
  
"Hey, Einstein!" Marty greeted the dog as he came trotting up and jumped excitedly. "That's a good boy. I know. I've missed you." He scratched behind the dog's ears and kissed the top of his fuzzy head. Abruptly self-conscious that he'd skipped Doc and gone straight for greeting Einie, he stood up and brushed himself off. "I've missed you, too, Doc," Marty said, shifting over to stand directly in front of him, hands jammed nervously in his back pockets to prevent himself from grabbing Doc like last time. Humans weren't always like dogs; stealing a kiss without asking was, nine times out of ten, rude. "In fact," he added, stepping in closer to test the water, "I missed you even more."  
  
Time seemed to slow around them as Doc took Marty's face in both hands, pressing a tentative kiss to his forehead.

"I would ask you not to take any actions you might regret until you've heard what I have to say," he said gravely, and turned to walk across the cluttered space until he came to the ottoman in front of his red armchair. He picked up something propped against it—the ledger, Marty realized—and then went over and sat down on the edge of his unmade, but unusually tidy four-poster bed in the corner. "Come over and have a look at this. It's what I've been working on for the past week and a half." He indicated that Marty should sit, transferring the book to Marty's lap, and then got up again. "Take a gander at those figures while I go fetch something."  
  
The figures, as Doc called them, were _staggering_. The sums were listed by date, time, and type of event—all of them in the past, but within a tight ten-year window—and the amounts blew Marty's mind. Fifty thousand dollars here and there, a hundred thousand dollars a handful of times, half a _million_ several times over. These winnings (he realized now what Doc had done) added up to a small, yet tidy fortune.  
  
"Doc," said Marty, too stunned to even be furious. "You've won the equivalent of your family's former assets, haven't you?" He gawped at Doc, who was returning with a rattling plastic wash-basin in hand and wearing the most contrite expression Marty had ever seen. "I don't know how that's possible," he continued. "I destroyed that almanac myself. Because you _asked_ me to."  
  
"I didn't need the almanac to remember the names, dates, locations, and outcomes of the sporting events I read about Biff winning in the newspapers I stole from the library in 1985A," Doc admitted, tapping his forehead with one hand while clutching the basin tight to his chest with the other. "Eidetic memory _does_ come in handy. I gleaned just enough information from the articles at hand to make a killing. I hope you'll forgive me for breaking my own rules yet _again_ , but I've begun to recognize the occasional utility of throwing caution to the wind." He took the ledger out of Marty's lap and set the basin down in its stead. "There it is," he said. "You incinerated a sports periodical for me, so I've demolished the flux capacitor for you. An eye for an eye."  
  
Marty sifted through the contents of the basin. The three oddly-shaped strobe lights had been reduced to filaments and shards of glass. The metal casing and other essential components were fragmented beyond recognition; some of them had even been blow-torched. 

"That's great, Doc," he said, "but I'm almost sorry it's over. Yeah, it was dangerous, but you put all of your resources and your brilliance behind this. Now it's a pile of useless junk."  
  
"It's time for me to think about settling down and taking the column seriously now that _people_ are taking it seriously," Doc said with unforced determination. "It started off as something to pass the time, but turned out to be truly _worthwhile_. I don't want to spend my retirement in this—in this _hole_ ," he said, gesturing wildly at the space around them. "I've found some land just outside of town and made an offer. I want to rebuild the Estate exactly the way it was. Well, maybe not _exactly_ the way it was; the house was excessive even when it was just me and my parents living in it."  
  
Marty set the basin down, kicking it under the bed, and then got to his feet. "I liked your house the way it was, Doc," he admitted. "In 1955, I mean. I have no idea what it was like when you were growing up, but, from what I saw of it, it was fine. Classy. Comfortable." He swallowed, glancing down at his feet as he stepped close to Doc in order to try this again. "Doc, please, _can_ I—?"  
  
"Marty," said Doc, sadly, "you may have whatever paltry offerings are still in my power to give."  
  
"We've changed my whole fucking life, Doc, in case you hadn't noticed," said Marty, reaching to decisively touch Doc's face, pressing closer until their bodies touched. "Changed _our_ whole life," he added for emphasis, and kissed Doc properly this time in order to drive the point home.  
  
Doc cradled the back of Marty's head, gathering him close; he must've kissed at least _one_ person at some point in his life, because he didn't totally suck at this. Marty sagged against him, knees gone weak. After about thirty seconds of enthusiastic back-and-forth, they were both noticeably turned on, so there wasn't much room for embarrassment. They paused for air, breathing hard.  
  
"Part of me has been waiting thirty years to do that," Doc said, "but I had no way of knowing if—"  
  
"If the sentiment was ever gonna be returned?" Marty replied. "Jesus, _yeah_. I hear you."  
  
"I won't allow this unless you've logically thought it through," said Doc, far too serious for Marty's liking. "I consider you close enough to eighteen to be considered a consenting adult, and I know you consider yourself as such, too, but there are others who would think differently. This could be perilous, Marty. For both of us. Until June, we'd need to conduct ourselves with the strictest discretion, honeymoon period be damned. Even now, irrational though it may sound, I'm convinced I'm contributing to the delinquency of a minor. You should be in _school_."

 _You made me complicit in plutonium theft_ , thought Marty, trying his best not to burst out laughing, _and you only just_ now _feel as if you're contributing to the delinquency of a minor?_

"No, Doc, I shouldn't," he insisted instead, tugging on Doc's lapels. "As far as they're concerned, I'm feeling under the weather and need rest. The administration hates my music, sure, but their regard for my academic achievement isn't in jeopardy if I miss one goddamn day of school." Doc kissed him again, briefly, as if he couldn't help it; Marty thrilled to it, indulging him. "Between my parents' influence and yours, it looks like I turned out all right—even if you _do_ have unwitting criminal tendencies," he teased. "Don't worry so much. Discretion is my middle name, and if you know nothing else about me by now, you should at least know _that._ We've earned some happiness if we can find it. Doc, listen to me. I want us to _try_."  
  
"Any experiment you deem essential is, in my humble estimation, worth pursuing," said Doc, giving Marty that wry, tilted smile of his. "But mark my words: we're gonna take it _slow_. I've never actually done this before; I'm more familiar with the process in theory than in practice."  
  
Marty clung to him tighter, awash in giddy relief. "Neither have I, Doc," he said, rolling his eyes. "Not unless you count some hot and heavy kissing with clothes on, which—wow, was kinda _not_ sexy in retrospect, so let's not talk about that." He met Doc's eyes, searching for approval as his fingers circled Doc's shirt buttons, and started on them when Doc gave him a tense nod. "I wanna find out what you like, Doc," he said, punctuating each undone button with a peck on Doc's lips. "I wanna find out what _I_ like, for that matter. I mean besides _you_."  
  
Doc let Marty slide his shirt down and off his shoulders (smooth chest with sparse hair and scattered freckles; slight softness along Doc's belly and around his middle). He surprised Marty by working his hands underneath Marty's t-shirt, exploring the ticklish expanse of Marty's back. "I want to lay you down and kiss you all over, for a start," he breathed against Marty's ear.  
  
"Doc, if you don't get me outta these clothes _now_ —" Marty hadn't expected this, but he wasn't complaining, either; he'd been bodily lifted as if he weighed next to nothing and carried over to Doc's bed. He'd always wondered why the lab had two, the twin and the queen. He supposed that the smaller one had been Doc's when he was a kid, salvaged from storage after the fire in spite of the fact that Doc had bought himself a larger one. He'd been grateful of Doc's occasional afternoon nap spot as crash-space for the past few years, but it would've been a cramped place to hook up.  
  
Doc's mattress was firm, and his sheets were worn. Marty lay still as Doc undressed him, compliant when Doc needed him to lift up in order to clear an item of clothing. Finally naked and blushing as Doc reverently took in the sight of him, he fumbled at Doc's belt, mumbling, "Your turn."  
  
Doc rolled away from Marty just long enough to sit on the edge of the mattress and rid himself of his sneakers, socks, cargo pants, and cotton boxers. He was a sight for sore eyes even with all the slight imperfections of age.  He carried his broad frame well: startlingly, if unconventionally attractive for someone who'd been around for over half a century.

Marty shivered with fierce want, reaching for him. "Get _over_ here, Doc," he said.

"For all the working-out I do by default in my trade," said Doc, with self-deprecating restraint, even though the look in his eyes suggested he might just want to throw his arms around Marty and never let go, "I'm afraid that what you see is what you get." He went to Marty even so, kissing him back down against the pillows, proceeding to make good on his promise.  
  
"Doc, I'm gonna explode if you don't shut up and kiss me, touch me, _something_ ," Marty gritted out, but it was superfluous given the progress of Doc's clever mouth from Marty's earlobe to the side of his neck to his chest. He shuddered helplessly, hadn't even _known_ he'd be so sensitive there, pleading for more. Always one step ahead, Doc wrapped his hand around Marty's hard-on and gave him a few firm, careful strokes, never once letting up on the downward progress of his kisses otherwise, or on the light scratch of his fingernails against Marty's nipples.  
  
"On the contrary, I hope that's precisely what'll happen if I keep this up," Doc replied, letting his tongue dip into Marty's navel. "Please tell me if this is working, Marty. Tell me what you need."  
  
"I need you to come up here and let me touch you, too," said Marty, faintly, "or this is gonna be over _way_ too fast." Doc reluctantly did as he was told, giving the head of Marty's cock the briefest teasing lick before crawling up next to him. Marty rolled onto his side so that they were pressed front to front, skin against flushed skin. He went with what felt right and what got the best response; Doc whimpered when Marty worked a hand in between them to stroke and squeeze, but he outright _moaned_ when Marty let his thigh slide up between Doc's, pushing against him. "I want you to suck me off sometime, but not right now," he mumbled against Doc's mouth, greedily drinking in each kiss. "We're taking it slow, remember?"  
  
"Not as slow as we might," Doc rasped, his thrusts growing erratic, strained. "Marty, this is—" He exhaled, shuddering hard, and muffled whatever sound he might've made against the side of Marty's neck as he came. "Perfect," he whispered, struggling to sit up even though he hadn't fully regained his composure, and Marty protested only a little when Doc settled against the headboard in a sitting position and situated them so that Marty lay sprawled between his legs with his back against Doc's chest. Marty closed his eyes and let his head fall back against Doc's shoulder, unable to swallow the cry that escaped him as Doc wrapped those deft, responsive fingers around him. "Rest," Doc said, resuming the rhythm he'd established before, nuzzling Marty's hair. "It isn't that you earned this; it's that you _deserve_ all the care I can possibly give."  
  
Marty was a shaking, gasping wreck with no finesse left, and _still_ Doc seemed overjoyed to hold him. He listened to the taut, helpless rasp of his own breath—relishing the rhythm of Doc's hand on him, the warmth of Doc's arms around him—waiting to fall. He was pretty sure that sex _rarely_ went this well for most first-timers, at least based on what he'd been told.  
  
" _Doc_ ," Marty gasped, his climax washing over him, clinging as Doc murmured soft, approving nonsense in Marty's ear. "Doc, Jesus _Christ_." He trembled with aftershocks, so Doc soothingly rubbed his arms, his belly, his thighs. "How the hell can you—" Marty panted, trying to catch his breath "—be so good at this, it isn't _fair_."  
  
"I've had quite a few years to ponder what I'd do if I was ever lucky enough to find a partner," said Doc, reasonably, but there was a laziness to his speech that suggested he was basking just as much as Marty, "of either gender, _any_ gender. Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has allowed for infinite combinations of intimate acts, genetic configurations, sexual orientations..." Doc trailed off, shrugging, and planted a satisfied kiss against Marty's temple. "I'd always assumed my primary attraction was to women because I'd had plenty of data to corroborate that theory—those magazines I keep, for instance—but I went to both college and graduate school, you have to remember. Institutions of higher learning are hot-beds of experimentation. I _may_ have indulged in the occasional session of, how did you so succinctly put it, heavy kissing with clothes on."  
  
"You aren't just a stealth chick-magnet, then," Marty sighed, too content to move. "You're a stealth guy-magnet to boot. I'm gonna have to keep a close eye out, is that how it is?"  
  
"No, never," said Doc, quietly, lulling Marty into a light doze with the affectionate graze of his fingertips up and down Marty's arms. "Not when mine are so steadfastly fixed on you."

"Dammit," muttered Marty, sleepily, amused by the fact that Doc was simultaneously trying to clean them off _and_ not to wake him.  "My Dad gave me a signed copy of his new novel for you to read and review, and I forgot to bring it."

"Don't worry about it," said Doc, tossing aside whatever article of clothing he'd been using to dry them, wrapping Marty securely in his arms again once he'd drawn up the covers.  "We have time."


	2. As Hard As Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thing is as hard as its consequences, and Marty McFly should know.

**November 7 - 8, 1985**

When Marty was a kid—that is, back when George had still been kind of a loser—his father had been fond of the saying that goes: _a thing is as hard as its consequences_.  Those words had stuck with Marty through his seventeen and a half years and life, up to this very moment, and he wasn't even sure _why_. However, he was pretty sure of the reason he was remembering it now.

At that moment, the toughest prospect Marty faced was whether or not he could bear to get out of Doc's bed. He was warm and blissed-out and Doc was still holding him, and even though Marty had been awake for several minutes, _Doc_ was the one taking his turn to nap.  If Marty got up and went over to call home so he could leave a message on the answering machine to reassure his mother he hadn't run off and joined the circus or something, he'd risk waking Doc.  And, given all the shit they'd been through in the past couple of weeks, that was the _last_ thing he wanted to do.

Doc stirred, rubbing between Marty's shoulder blades.  "Did you sleep all right?" he asked.

"Like the dead," Marty sighed, lifting his head to peck Doc on the lips.  "How about you?"

"Better than that, even," Doc yawned, giving him a wistful smile.  "You should call home."

"Mom's not back from her string of appointments for another half-hour," Marty said.   "I'll just leave a message or something. Besides, when I'm not around, they just assume I'm here anyway."

"Yes, but your mother called you in sick to school," Doc pointed out, "and she _believes_ you're under the weather.  How do you think she'll feel if she comes home and you're not in bed?"

"Hey, I _am_ in bed," Marty replied, snuggling closer, and he thought for a minute Doc was going to push him away in aggravation; instead, Doc responded in kind, squeezing him.  "It counts, right?"

"To you and to me, certainly," Doc agreed.  "But I doubt you should mention that when you call."

"No kidding," said Marty, and, with regret, disentangled himself from both Doc and the covers. He sat on the edge of the mattress, stretching, aware that Doc's eyes swept appreciatively down his spine. "I'll just tell 'em we're running one of your all-nighters with lots of crucial checkpoints and say that you need me to stay over so we can tag-team data collection.  I'll leave for school from here in the morning. Tomorrow's Friday, so I could even tell Mom to call Strickland again and say—"

"You will _not_ miss another day of school on my account," Doc insisted.  "And I think that you should go home until Saturday," he continued.  "We can run your so-called experiment from then into Sunday.  Besides, I'll need your eyes on the blueprints."

Before Marty could protest, Doc got up and went over to the bureau.  While he rummaged around, it was Marty's turn to appreciate the view. Doc wasn't conventionally attractive by most standards; Doc was just _Doc_ , and that made him more than desirable in Marty's estimation. He'd seen a few photographs of Doc as a young man, black-and-whites of him from the thirties, plus color shots of him in college during the forties and onward into grad school. Marty had joked, a year or so back when he'd first seen them, that Doc had never told him he'd been a cute redhead.

"Yeah, my mistake," Marty blurted before he thought better of it.  "You're _still_ a cute redhead."

Doc turned to look at him with a pair of dressing-gowns in hand, all hawk-eyed confusion, and then got the reference halfway back to the bed.  He threw one of the garments at Marty, shrugging into the other; Marty sat there laughing with the ridiculous thing draped over his head, which was where it had landed. Doc, in fond exasperation, came over and fetched the dressing-gown, wrapping Marty in it.

It was the one Doc had been wearing in 1955, almost threadbare.  Marty kissed him.

"Go call your mother, Future Boy," Doc said, tugging Marty to his feet, "or I'll do it for you."

Marty dialed reluctantly while Doc leaned against the wall with his arms folded.  Einstein snuffled at both of their feet, begging for something to eat even though he'd only just been fed a few hours earlier. The call rang through, and the McFly house answering machine picked up.  Marty sighed.

"It's me," he said.  "Sorry to disappear on you.  I was feeling a little better, so I thought I'd head down to Doc's to see if he needed help with anything.  He's been really busy recently.  You know, stuff like that.   I, _ah_.  Ma, listen, Doc's running something time-sensitive down here, and he told me he thinks I should go home, but—" Doc made an aggravated gesture, but Marty kept going "—but I think he's frazzled and could _really_ use the help.  So I'm gonna crash here if that's okay, and I'll head straight for school in the morning. I don't need clothes or anything; the ones I'm in today are clean, and nobody'll have seen me in them but Doc. Just—don't go out of your way to run anything down here for me, okay?  Love ya."

"I wish you'd listen to me when it's important," Doc sighed as Marty hung up.  "Are you _sure_ —"

"No, you've got it the wrong way around," replied Marty, advancing on him.  " _You_ need to listen to _me_ more often. Starting with no more plutonium theft and no more time machines, as incredible as that shit was." He put his hands on his hips, trying to look imposing, but that wasn't going to work because Doc would _never_ not be taller than he was, and also, Marty just wanted to drag him back across the room for more comfort-sex and sleep.  "I swear I've spent the past week and change almost losing you like a dozen times, maybe _more_.  I need to be with you right now, Doc."

For a few seconds, Doc looked like he was going to launch into some kind of stern rebuttal, but instead he took Marty's face in his hands and kissed him, slow and apologetic.  "Then what I'm going to do," said Doc, with that fierce resolve Marty admired more than anything else, "is take you back to bed for some more recuperation, and then I'm going to get us some food and show you the modified plans for the house."

Doc wouldn't let Marty touch him, wouldn't let him get his hands in edgewise.  He teased Marty stiff, kissing him from collarbone to ankles till he was practically _begging_ , and then sucked him off with ruthless enthusiasm.  By the end of it, Marty was sure he was lucky he could remember what the flux capacitor even _was_ , much less how many jigawatts or miles per hour were required to—

"Doc, c'mon," he murmured, raking his fingers trough Doc's hair, "why won’t you just _let_ me?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm burnt-out from earlier," said Doc, grinning ruefully, crawling back up the length of Marty's body to settle against him and prove it. "Sleep some more; I'll wake you around five.  What do you want me to have on hand for supper?  Don't say Burger King."

"Dunno," Marty yawned, winding himself around Doc so he'd have a tough time getting up to go place an order. "There's that Italian place on Jefferson Street.  We haven't had them in a while."

"That's not very specific, Marty," chided Doc, and, wow, the guy was an absolute cuddle-slut given the chance.  "What if I order you baked ziti, but you're in the mood for spaghetti alla puttanesca?"

"Let's be clear on one thing," Marty said, pressing his mouth against Doc's neck, drunk on the freedom to _actually do this kind of disgusting relationship shit with somebody_ , "you could order me that fancy eggplant, and I'd eat it without complaint. That's how happy I am right now. So why don't you just lie here with me for a while and then place the order if you wake up first? If you don't, I'll place it.  I _know_ what you like."

Doc gave him a soft, befuddled look.   "You're _actually_ happy enough to eat eggplant parm?"

"Jesus _Christ_ , Doc," he sighed, closing his eyes, grinning stupidly. "Go back to sleep already."

Marty wasn't the one to wake up first. When he finally did, it was almost six o'clock, Einstein had been fed, and Doc was sitting fully dressed in his armchair with the ledger and a mess of blueprints in his lap. Something smelled fantastic, and that drew Marty's eye down to the large brown paper bag sitting at Doc's feet. He yawned, stretched, squirmed into the dressing-gown, and got up.

"I got you spaghetti alla carbonara," Doc told him, setting the mess of papers aside.  "Hungry?"

"Famished," said Marty, picking up the bag, pulling the staples free.  "Go get us some plates."

They spent the evening like they would've spent any other scheming session in their pre-time-travel-and-romance world: bickering, scribbling notes, and getting garlic-bread crumbs on _everything_. Marty didn't mind that Doc had no desire to get another organ to put outside the ground-floor bathroom; he'd known how to play it because his mother, Edith, had taught him, but after his parents' death, the instrument hadn't so much held sentimental meaning as been a means of collecting dust.  He said yes to everything else, too, loving the way Doc's eyes lit up as he talked.

Afterward, they watched some television and fell asleep with Einie guarding the foot of the bed.

While Marty had been napping in the lead-up to dinner, Doc must have set his entire host of clocks to go off at six in the morning, because that's when they all clanged at once. Marty sat bolt-upright with a panicked shout; it took him a few seconds of muddling around in the bedclothes and inadvertently groping Doc's ear, neck, and elbow to remember where he was and _why_.

"Sorry," Doc whispered, pulling him back under the covers.  "Didn't mean to scare you."

Doc didn't seem burnt-out anymore, at least not based on what Marty felt pressing against his belly as he kissed Doc, so making the decision to indulge in impromptu wake-up sex was easy. Doc made a half-assed attempt at protest, citing the fact that Marty wouldn't have enough time to shower if they weren't quick about it, but Marty's hand down the front of his boxers put an end to _that_. The angle was awkward and hurt Marty's wrist, so he ground against Doc until the stimulation through two layers of fabric was _way_ too intense.  They came within seconds of each other.

"Go get cleaned up," Doc hissed, nudging at him.  " _Now_. I'll make you some toast, all right?"

"Whatever," Marty muttered, stealing a quick kiss, or at least he'd _intended_ for it to be quick.

Twelve minutes later, he was out the door with Doc's padlock combination and two pieces of buttered toast jammed in his mouth. It took him almost two minutes to fight the padlock open, and hopping back on Dave's rickety bike for the trip to school without his backpack wasn't ideal.  He got there at seven on the dot, finishing his toast as he dashed up the school steps.  He had time to swing by his locker and pick up textbooks for his first-period class, but that didn't mean he was in the clear.  He heard the approach of familiar footsteps.

"You're a daydreamer, McFly," said Principal Strickland, looming behind him. "You're a daydreamer just like your old man.  Now, fortunately for George, that writer crap all worked out, but I can't say there's as much hope for your music.  I hope for your sake that you really were sick yesterday, rather than plugged into a giant amplifier down at Doc Brown's place."

For a second, Marty couldn't respond; was this a world in which he'd taken the Pinheads down there once or twice to jam, maybe, and then they'd gone around talking about how sweet Doc's equipment-mod skills were? He just had to assume that it was. He was never going to catch up with the changes fast enough; surely _someone_ was going to call him out on his confusion.

And then he decided to have some real fun with this, because Strickland was still a windbag.

"No _sir_ ," said Marty, turning, brushing Strickland's hand off his shoulder.  "I was running a temperature, and I, _ah_ —needed some time in bed," he continued. "To burn it off, you know?"

Strickland regarded him as if he longed to do nothing so much as write him a detention slip, but it seemed as if being late for class the first time this school year wasn't sufficient offense.  "I'd better not hear that ear-sore of a demo tape blaring in the halls," Strickland muttered.  "Get to class."

"You bet," Marty said, saluting as he walked off. "I'd rather be a daydreamer than a slacker!"

Getting through his morning classes was torture.  Jennifer caught him while he was on his way to lunch, asking if he'd like company, and he was actually glad enough to see a familiar face who _wasn't_ Strickland that he took her up on the offer.  They bickered and joked their way through the line (that day's offerings looked awful, although the chicken nuggets looked _less_ awful than the tacos), and then found a table.

"You should've heard," Jennifer said, shaking her carton of apple juice before opening it.  "By the end of yesterday, there were all kinds of strange rumors about why you were out of school."

"People are sick all the time," said Marty, shrugging, trying the green beans.  They were dire, yeah, but he was hungry; Doc's toast hadn't really cut it.  "Why crazy rumors?  Was it the freshmen?"

"Marty, you don't understand," she said.  "It's because you almost _never_ miss school. And I'm willing to bet it _was_ underclassmen, because you know how they're all in awe of your association with Doc.  I think my favorite was the one where you've contracted anthrax because Doc's had you working on a biological weapon.  I think the only people defending your honor were me and the guys and Tiff Tannen. Teachers love Doc's column, but most of our classmates think he's a joke."

"Tiff Tannen was standing up for me instead of spreading the rumors? Or creating more probable ones that nonetheless still involve Doc?" asked Marty, incredulously. "That kid is his number-one fangirl.  Did you know she dressed up as Doc for Halloween?  That's some kind of dedication."

Jennifer gave him a smirk that wasn't quite her classic come-on-now look. "Marty, that's a pretty ironic and judgmental statement coming from Doc Brown's number-one fan _boy_ ," she said.  "Think about it."

 _If only you knew_ , he thought, and then wondered, fleetingly, if he should tell at least someone, someone he could _trust_.  "Well," he said, "they had it partly right. I was with Doc yesterday."

"So you sucked up to your mom," said Jennifer, "because, let's face it, you're her baby, and then she called you in sick so you could go mess around with Doc on his latest experiment.  Am I right?"

 _No_ , Marty thought. _I sucked up to my mom, who called me in sick, so I could go listen to Doc's confession and tell him how much he means to me and get us both laid, which I did, and it's great._ Losing his nerve at the last minute, what he said instead was, "Yeah, fine. You know me too well."

After school, Trav cornered Marty at the bike-rack and clapped him on the shoulder.  "Hey, man!"

"Hey," Marty said, snapping the padlock he'd borrowed from Doc's front gate off his brother's bike.  "Sorry I wasn't around yesterday.  I know we'd sorta made plans to rehearse.  How'd it go?"

"Not great without you, to be honest," said Trav. "Listen, the guys wanna know. That tape—"

 _It's burning a hole through the top shelf of my locker_ , thought Marty, guiltily. "Oh," he said. "Oh, right! Hey, you don't need to worry about that. I had my mom mail it yesterday. The wait begins."

"Fuckin' _rock_!" Trav exclaimed, grinning, and high-fived Marty so hard it stung.  "I'll tell the guys, don't worry about it.  You don't look so hot; maybe you should go home.  And now we wait."

"Uh, yeah," said Marty, with forced cheerfulness. "Guess we do. Have a great weekend, okay?"

He waited until Trav had lit up a cigarette and strolled out of sight to re-padlock the bike and dash back inside the school. He fucked up his combination three times before getting his locker open, swearing under his breath. He stuck the tape in his pocket, checking the piece of paper rubber-banded around it.  The address of the record company, along with the detailed call-for-demo instructions, was still there.  He slammed his locker shut and dashed back outside. His thoughts were such a maelstrom of conflicting impulses that he didn't realize till he was thirty seconds away that he'd ridden back to Doc's place instead of heading home. He propped the bike against the gate.

As Marty came in, Doc looked up from studying the mess of blueprints and other random pieces of note-covered paper he'd spread out on the bed. "It isn't that I'm not happy to see you," he sighed, noticing only too late that Marty seemed frazzled, "but I thought we discussed the fact that you should go home."  He put his arms around Marty, sighing, hugging him tight.  "What is it?"

"Careful," Marty said, pulling back slightly, tapping his pocket.  "It's this.  I told Trav I sent it out, but, as you can see, that's not the case.  I lied.  I swear I can't, Doc. What was I thinking?"

"What are you so afraid of?" Doc demanded, letting his hands rest on Marty's shoulders. "I find this difficult to believe, because you're practically the bravest person I know. You tolerated my time experiments even when you knew full well they could get us both killed. You got in the DeLorean alone, knowing full well what the risks were, and took it to the top. You got stuck in a decade that, to you, might as well have been an alien planet.  You didn't even freak out about it, at least not that I saw! Marty, get a grip on yourself. It's an audition tape that could snag you a record deal."

Marty took the tape out of his pocket and shook it in Doc's face.  "You know something?  You're right. I shouldn't be thinking about how that kind of shit could wreck what we've only just got going, or how it could, I don't know, take me on the road away from you and my family and everything I know here in Hill Valley.  I don't know most of it anyway.  You're _okay_ with this?"

Doc shrugged.  "Why the hell not?  I can write from anywhere, can't I?  I'd go on the road with you if you asked me to."  He paused, as if reconsidering.  "I mean, if only if you _wanted_ me to."

"Doc, I'd go nuts without you along for the ride," Marty said, returning the tape to his pocket.

Doc clapped him on the shoulders. "I'm taking you straight to the Post Office," he said, bending to scratch Einstein on the head when the dog wandered up to them and snuffled, "and we're not leaving until you mail that thing.  Then, once you've done that, I'm taking you home."

Marty knew better than to argue. The DeLorean, having been gutted back to normal-if-battered sports car status, got them to the Post Office a few minutes before closing.  The staff looked beyond annoyed while Doc watched him address the envelope and drop the tape inside.  _There, done_.

"My treat," said Doc, and paid the postage while Marty watched.  "It's out of your hands."

They exited the building, strolling back to the car in pensive silence.  The last thing Marty wanted was to go home.  He wanted to go back to the lab and order in something else for dinner and maybe play a few of the covers he'd been working on for Doc, and then go back to bed with him.  _Fuck_.

Neither one of them spoke until Doc had pulled up alongside the curb in front of Marty's house.

"You know I'd let you stay," said Doc, quietly, in a tone of defeat.  "I don't really have the heart—"

"Nah, Doc," Marty sighed, noting with some disgruntlement that Biff's car was in the driveway. "You're right. They'll get mad if I don't come home, and then where would that leave us?"

"If you think you can come back tomorrow," said Doc, "then come back.  But don't push it."

 _This is gonna be worse than trying to steal time with Jennifer ever was_ , thought Marty, with a sinking feeling. He scanned the street and, satisfied that no one was watching, leaned to kiss Doc.  "I will," he said, disappointed when Doc pulled away too quickly.  "Doc, _look_ at me.  I promise."

"Good night," he said, brushing the back of Marty's hand with his thumb.  "Now, get in there."

Marty got out of the DeLorean, and any impulse he might've had to glance over his shoulder was squashed by Doc driving off faster than necessary.  He swore, realizing that he'd left Dave's bike at the lab. _Well, there you go,_ he thought. _They'll have to let you go tomorrow; Dave will throw an epic tantrum if something that's his doesn't return in good order_. Marty reluctantly went inside.

"You didn't hear this from me," said Linda, not glancing up from her rapid channel-surfing on the sofa, "but somebody's in _big_ trouble.  Mom's not too happy about your answering machine spiel."

"Get off my case," Marty snapped, kicking off his shoes.  "I was feeling better.  Doc needed help."

"Oh, Marty, thank _God_!" Lorraine exclaimed, rushing in from the kitchen, where she'd clearly been monitoring the tuna-noodle casserole Marty could smell in the oven. "I was so worried you'd get worse over there and maybe start running a higher temperature," she fretted, patting Marty's forehead, kissing him on the cheek.  "I'm so glad the fever's broken.  Maybe you needed the distraction."  Once Linda rolled her eyes and started paying attention to the news again, Lorraine took Marty's hand and yanked him into the kitchen, her expression changing.  "I understand that you're torn to bits over the break-up," she said in a low voice, "but acting out is no way to cope."

"Ma, I _wasn't_ acting out," Marty protested.  "I wasn't feeling that great, so I slept in because you said I could stay home. Then, once I woke up, I felt better, so I headed over to Doc's because I didn't want to sit around the house alone for like five more hours.  What's wrong with that?"

Lorraine sighed and pursed her lips. "You wouldn't have been alone; I got home around one.  I didn't think to listen to the answering machine.  I couldn't find you.  I called the Parkers' place, but Melissa said she hadn't seen you.  She's suggested that I check to see if you'd left a message, and thank goodness you did.  I don't want you to get depressed, Marty.  School's important."

"Believe me," Marty said, reaching up to pull some plates down from the cupboard, "depressed is the _last_ thing that I am.  Sure, breaking up with Jennifer was a drag, but that happened like _two weeks ago_. It's not like she and I were engaged or anything."  He sighed. "This isn't 1955."

For the briefest instant, Lorraine looked vaguely insulted, but she burst out laughing almost as quickly and took the plates off Marty's hands.  "You kids are so optimistic these days," she said, waving him out. "How could I have doubted? Aside from that fire, you were always a sensible boy.  Why don't you go chase the riff-raff out and tell your father and brother it's time for dinner?"

"I'll do that," Marty said, and fled the kitchen.  He went back the hall and ducked his head into his dad's study, where the voices he'd been hearing resolved themselves into George, Dave, and Biff _standing around having beers together_.  Marty blinked at them and said, "What the hell is—"

"Oh, _son_ ," said George, apologetically, offering what was left in his bottle. "Hi.  These were the last three!  We were just talking over the modifications that Biff's going to do on Dave's car."

"Why should you get a sweet-ass truck and have all the fun?" Dave asked, raising his bottle.

"Hey, Marty," said Biff, offering a friendly (if tipsy) wave.  "How are the wheels treatin' ya?"

"Well enough," said Marty, "but mostly I wouldn't know.  Doc's got this DeLorean, see, and—"

"A _DeLorean_?" said Biff, awe-struck.  "Do you think he'd let me take it for a spin sometime?"

"Uh," said Marty, frozen like a deer in the headlights, and realized Biff _didn't_ mean anything.

"Is that Marty?" called a young female voice from across the hall, loudly.  "Marty, is that you?"

"Oh," said George, as if just remembering something.  "Tiff's having a look at your records."

"You left a _teenager_ unattended in my bedroom?" asked Marty, incredulously, backing into the hall. "Okay, listen, Mom says everybody who's not a McFly needs to get out of here.  It's dinnertime."  He spun on his heel, dashed into his bedroom, and found Tiff sitting primly on the edge of his bed with a stack of records in her lap.  She was looking through them one by one, setting them carefully aside on the freshly-made bedclothes.

"I wanted to know if you had any cool science stuff in here," said Tiff, "and your dad didn't seem to think letting me in was a big deal.  I'm not my brothers, you know.  I don't break things."  She tilted her head toward Marty.  "Close the door," she said.  "I want to ask you a question."

 _This day could not possibly get weirder_ ,Marty thought, doing as he was told.  "Make it quick."

"I was in your Dad's office till not that long ago," Tiff said hesitantly.  "I was looking out the window when you and Doc pulled up in that strange car.  I'm not saying anything's wrong with what I saw, and even if there _was_ , it's not my business or anything, but I think...I sort of saw..."

 _Oh Jesus_ , Marty thought, his hand tightening on the doorknob.  "Tell me," he said.  "Right now."

Tiff's eyes flicked up to his face, frightened.  "You kissed Doc Brown," she whispered.  "I saw."

 _This is too fucking heavy for me to deal with right now_ , Marty thought, but he somehow managed to keep his voice under control.  "You're right," he said, so relieved to articulate it to another human being that he couldn't even express the sentiment.  It meant he hadn't dreamed it all, that he wasn't losing his mind, that this wasn't some alternate timeline that was going to fade on him. "I did."

"I'm not going to blackmail you or anything," said Tiff, in amazement, "if that's what you're afraid of.  _I_ was afraid you were going to call me a liar or threaten me or something.  I know about keeping secrets," she went on, staring at the record in her hands.  "I like girls. I kiss them."

Marty nodded, pointing at the record. "Hey, ah—that's bitchin'," he said, and Tiff looked up at him, grinning shyly.  "You wanna borrow that?  Go ahead.  I just, look, your secret's safe with me and mine's safe with you.  Right?"  Tiff nodded, so he started breathing again.  "Okay, _right_."

"I still want to meet him," said Tiff, shifting the rest of the record pile off her lap, rising with the one Marty had said she could borrow clutched to her chest.  "Doc Brown, I mean.  Ask him?"

"I'm gonna be seeing him again tomorrow, so you can bet your ass I'll ask," Marty promised.

"Tiff, get your _butt_ out here!" Biff shouted from the hall.  "Leave Marty alone!  He's been sick."

"Oh yeah," said Tiff, smirking as she reached for the doorknob.  "The anthrax rumor was me."

Marty stood alone in his room for several seconds after she'd gone, staring at the record pile.

 

 

**December 24 - 25, 1985**

Christmas Eve in the revised McFly household, as Marty was learning up-close and personal, meant his parents pulling out all the stops on booze, catering, and an unlimited supply of cocktail shrimp.  It also meant inviting over the Parkers, the Tannens, and, by special decree since the flowers and campaign donation, the Wilsons.  It was a volatile mix at best, especially given the Tannen kids and Lorraine's desire to push Marty and Jennifer back together at every given opportunity.

Marty was offended that Doc hadn't made the guest-list even after he'd suggested it several times, what with how much George admired his column.  Tiff Tannen had already been over to the lab on two Saturdays for purposes of meeting Doc and picking his brain; Marty thought they'd hit it off pretty well. During the course of this party, therefore, Marty was spending a lot of time hiding in his father's study with Goldie's son Louis (George's favorite student in his History of American Sci-Fi class over at the community college) and Tiff, who could both talk decent shop on music and who were both also motivating Marty on his quest to read literary content not written by his dad.

"I bet Doc appreciates it," said Tiff, eating another shrimp.  The kid's plate was overloaded with discarded tails; as skinny as she was for being almost fifteen, she ate more than any teenage boy Marty could think of, Dave at that age included.  "It'll give you guys more stuff to discuss."

"From the sound of things," said Louis, "they've had plenty to talk about for a long time. But yeah, Doc Brown will probably dig it.”  He turned to Marty. “What did you think of _I Am Legend_?"

"It was... _intense_ ," said Marty, stealing one of Tiff's shrimp. "Surprising, actually," he continued, not the best at lit crit even on a day when Doc _hadn't_ demanded full use of his brain capacity. He missed Doc, hadn't seen him in almost a week due to end-of-grading-quarter studying for exams; the phone-calls hadn't really cut it.  "It's not your typical vampire story, is it?  It might fit more into the zombie genre, although it's not even zombies like you usually think of them, so—"

Louis and Tiff exchanged glances, so Marty stopped talking.  He was better at critical analysis on paper, when it came down to it; everything he tried to force past his teeth in English class or in conversations like this one just ended up sounding ridiculous.  He got up, brushing his hands off.

"Wait, don't go," said Tiff, tugging at Marty's jean-cuff from where she sat on the floor. "We didn't mean anything bad," she said.  "You got it. You could have just said it was a bitchin' book," she teased, and Marty smiled at her. "It would've been fine, but you gave us essay-babble instead."

"You should audit your dad's class the next time he teaches it," Louis suggested, swiveling in George's desk chair, and ate another nacho.  "Shoot, if you get into HVCC, and there's no reason you shouldn't, what with being a faculty member's kid," he continued, "just _take_ it.  We're covering Poe's non-horror speculative tales right now, and also looking at Verne's works in light of Poe's influence. That stuff's the best."

Before Marty could say that Jules Verne was Doc's favorite, someone knocked on the study door. Marty stepped over to answer it.

"I hate to spoil your book-club fun," George teased, “but the Parkers have arrived.  I think you should come out and talk to Jennifer for at least a little while," he said, pressing a pair of beers into Marty's hands. "It's only polite. She's called a few times in the past month; I think she's worried.”

"Sure, Dad," Marty said, and George was gone again.  _This is your revenge on Calvin Klein for every time he pushed you to talk to a girl when all you wanted to do was write_ , he thought.

The house was genuinely crowded, what with Jennifer's parents already on the sofa with food and drink.  Biff was talking Goldie's ear off about something he looked intensely disinterested in, and Jo Tannen was trying very hard to convince Candace Wilson that they should go shopping together sometime. The twins were running around with the Hot Wheels matchbox cars that George and Lorraine had given them for Christmas.

Marty found Jennifer huddled next to the food, filling her plate with cocktail shrimp, so he bumped her elbow and waved the beers.  "It's nice out," he said.  "Chilly, but nice. Wanna sit?"

"I'd like that," Jennifer said. "How about helping me eat these? I think I've taken too many."

"Sure," Marty said, holding the door open for her.  "I've had plenty of practice, because I've been helping everybody else with theirs since they got here.  I haven't even had to fill my own plate.”

They sat in peaceful silence on the front stoop for a while, just munching and drinking, taking in the festive, Christmas-lit glow of Lyon Estates.  Jennifer set her beer aside, folding her hands in her lap.

"So have you heard back about the tape yet?" she asked.  "I talked to Trav and Emil yesterday," she said.  "Ran into them downtown.  The guys are getting antsy—yeah, even Lenny.  That's three of them wondering why one of _you_ has been so tough to pin down for rehearsal.  What's wrong?"

"I've been stressed about school and busy helping Doc with rebuilding," said Marty.  "That's it."

"Don’t take this the wrong way," said Jennifer, carefully, "but how much time are you spending over there? The last few times I've called to see if you wanted to hang out, you've been gone."

"Jeez, I don't know," said Marty, shrugging, trying to keep it casual.  "I'm over there Friday night through Sunday evening, and then Tuesday or Wednesday night every other week if I can help it."

"Marty," Jennifer said, "that's the schedule busy people keep when they can't stand to be apart."

Marty nodded at the ground, swilling his beer pensively, and then looked up at her.  There was nothing he could ever hope to hide from her, not after how well she'd learned to read him. "Then I guess I should tell you," he replied slowly, "that you're right.  Doc and I can't stand to be apart."

Jennifer covered her mouth and looked away for a moment. Whether it was to conceal shock or mockery, Marty couldn't tell.  By the time she turned her face back to him, catching the glow of the driveway lights, she'd composed herself.  "When did this _start_ , exactly?"

"November seventh," admitted Marty, taking a drink of beer.  "About two weeks after we—"

Jennifer sighed.  "I _know_ when we broke up; it was my idea.  I'd prefer you didn't harp on it."

"That wasn't my intention, " said Marty, wincing. "I'm sorry. Jennifer, look, this is why—"

"Are you being careful, at least?" Jennifer asked, starting to fret.  "I mean, you hear a lot of things about—I don't know, AIDS, other sexually transmitted diseases, stuff like that.  Doc doesn't have a criminal record you might not know about, does he?  What if he has a history of—"

"For fuck's sake, Jennifer, calm down," Marty signed.  "Doc hasn't messed around with anybody for years, and, even then, he wasn't fucking them.  I can see you're _not_ shocked to hear that.  He's fine.  He's just—he's just _Doc_ , and I'm in a relationship with him.  Can you deal with that?"  
  
Jennifer actually did laugh this time, punching Marty in the nearest bit of him she could reach, which was his knee.  "Of course I can," she said.  "I dealt with it while we were dating, didn't I?"  
  
Marty rubbed the back of his neck, chagrined.  "Now that you mention it, I guess—" he paused, gathering his thoughts "—although it wasn't as if Doc and I were—well, you know what?" he sighed, surrendering, patting Jennifer's knee in return.  "Yeah, you sorta did.  I'm grateful."

"It's cold out here," Jennifer said, setting what was left of her shrimp in Marty's lap. "I'm going back inside to see if I can get some hot food.  Are you coming, or are you gonna sit there and pine?"

"Nah, I'm gonna come inside and pine," he said, winking.  "Besides, I'm getting out of here soon."

"Where are you going?" Jennifer asked as they stepped inside; Lorraine was _right_ there, blinking.

"Yeah, Marty," said Lorraine, hands on hips, tilting her head at her son.  "I'm not sure I agreed—"

"I'm not sure you did, either," said Marty, putting his foot down, "but I'm still going. I think it's shitty, pardon my French, that you didn't invite Doc tonight.  As far as I know, he spends every Christmas Eve by himself. It's not _right_ , Ma.  I'm gonna head over there, pick up some Chinese on the way, and watch Westerns with him till we both pass out.  He loves those movies."

Lorraine glanced at Jennifer, as if she ought to have a say in the matter.  "What do you think?"

"I think it's a shame Doc spends Christmas alone, actually," she said.  "Marty's a kind friend."

Lorraine's features softened, and she nodded.  "I guess you're right. That's how we raised him."

"Don't worry about me, Mrs. McFly," said Jennifer, dragging Marty by the arm. "Louis and Tiff will keep me company, and I'll make sure Marty's a good host and says goodbye before he goes."

While Jennifer joined Louis and Tiff in George's study, Marty slipped into his room and threw together the fastest week's worth of clothing he'd ever packed.  His mother probably wasn't going to like the plot-twist where he planned to stay with Doc up through New Year's, but she'd stop muttering the minute she realized Linda was already AWOL at Craig's place and wouldn't be home, either. Dave was in and out.

Marty shouldered his duffel bag, picked up his phone, and dialed.  "Hey," he said when Doc picked up.  "No problems on my end; I'll be heading out in like ten minutes, so I'll see you in fifteen or twenty.  Anything you want me to bring, besides food and that copy of my Dad's book?"

"Just yourself, Marty," Doc said, and it lifted Marty's spirits to hear him sound so pleased.

It took Marty a few more minutes to locate the book and his wallet.  He made another sweep of the room, fussing with his hair.  _My guitar_ , he thought, and then realized it was already at Doc's.

"Hey, Jennifer," Marty said, leaning into his dad's study.   "I never answered your question.  No, I haven't heard about the tape yet, but you can bet you and the guys will be first to know."

"First after Doc," she said, laughing, stepping into the hall, and closing the door behind her while Marty waved to Louis and Tiff.  "Tell me one thing," she said in a near-whisper.  "Is he good to you?"

"Yeah," said Marty, without hesitation, elated.  "He's great, believe it or not.  We just _work_."

Jennifer leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.  "Then go get him, tiger, because he's outside."

Marty cleared the gauntlet of his parents, his brother, the Tannens, and the Wilsons with a minimum of fuss. His parents liked to _look_ professional and in control, so nonchalantly letting their son leave to go spend time with a buddy was exactly what they did. Only Biff gave Marty a funny look.

Doc was parked outside in the DeLorean, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.  Marty opened the passenger-side door and slid in, pulling it shut behind him. He put on his seatbelt, wondering how many speed-limit infractions Doc had committed.

"How fast did you drive to get over here?" Marty demanded.  "I'd invite you in for hors d'oeuvres, but then we'd never get out of there, and I'm sick of the crowd.  I'd show you how glad I am to see you, but Tiff's watching from one of those windows and, uh, _knows_ about us. She's sharp."

"Adolescents can sense sexual tension a mile off," Doc muttered, pulling into the street. "Comes with the territory. Fortunately, if what you've told me about her is true, she has enough secrets of her own.  I don't think she'd try to cause any trouble for us, but I wonder about her old man."

"Yeah," Marty agreed, letting his hand creep over to Doc’s thigh.  "Biff may be a doormat, _but_ …"

Doc squeezed Marty's hand. "Later," he said. "Let's concentrate on picking up dinner, all right?"

Marty felt jittery, trapped in his own skin.  They spent a dull ten minutes waiting around the lobby of their favorite Chinese restaurant. Marty paid for the order, insisting on pulling his weight in light of the fact that Doc had been paying for literally _everything_ else. Not that Doc couldn't afford it, but it didn't feel right.  Doc was still paying Marty weekly, even, and he didn't know how to feel about _that_.  Relationship shit was far more complicated when one party was completely financially independent.

"I want you to stop paying me for the stuff I do around the lab," Marty said as they walked back to the DeLorean with their take-out.  "I'm not your employee anymore, Doc.  I'm your friend and—I'm more, too, I hope," he said.  "We've talked about this, so it's not that I doubt anything, but—"

"Then if I stop paying you, I'm going to keep paying for everything else we do," Doc insisted, getting them back on the road.  "Tonight’s the last time I'm letting you do that, so enjoy it while it lasts.   Most relationships have a primary bread-winner, and if it's me, I'm taking care of you."

"Then in return I'm gonna keep taking care of _you_ the best way I know how," said Marty, stubbornly, hugging the warm take-out bags to his chest.  "I run the risk of sounding like a broken record, but: no more time experiments!"

Doc grinned at that in spite of himself, reaching over to take Marty's hand. "Agreed."

Once they got back to the lab, the food sat neglected on the spare bed for twenty minutes because Marty refused to let Doc go anywhere but to the red armchair so that Marty could administer about a week's worth of lost kisses. Doc melted under the attention, entirely compliant, so Marty decided it was time to show Doc what _else_ he hadn't been getting. Doc looked concerned when Marty slipped out of Doc's lap and down onto his knees, so Marty leaned up to kiss him again.  He was going to have to play this just right.

"You've been doing this to me for a month," Marty said, unbuttoning Doc's loud yellow Hawaiian shirt before unfastening Doc’s trousers just as efficiently. "No, scratch that. _Longer_. It's been almost two months, and you won't let me show you what you're missing.  Where's the fun in that?"

"It's not about fun, Marty," Doc said, and then made a frustrated noise.  "Well, fine, it _is_ about fun, but this particular act, it's—" he gestured with his free hand "—so often misconstrued as being about power, exploitation, and I bear you _nothing_ but the deepest respect—"

"Doc, if you respect me as much as I think you do," Marty said, "then you're gonna let me blow you."  He bent and kissed Doc's hard-on through the thin cotton of his boxers, nuzzling experimentally; Doc gasped, running his fingers through Marty's hair. "Are we on the same page?"

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," Doc murmured, "but it must've at least been acceptable."

"Doc, shut _up_ ," Marty said, freeing Doc's erection.  He stroked the length of it, pressing a soft, wet kiss right against the tip. Doc somehow didn't taste like anything Marty _hadn’t_ been expecting, so he sucked in as much of him as he could. Doc made a strangled noise, both hands cradling the back of Marty’s head.  Instead of pushing, he let his fingers feather through Marty's hair. Marty hummed and closed his eyes.

Neither one of them finished like that, though, with Marty’s mouth on Doc and one of Marty's hands working his own hard-on.  Doc seemed to like having Marty in his arms while he was coming, and he seemed to like being kissed while that was happening even _more_ , so Marty couldn't complain about straddling Doc's lap with just enough clothes unbuttoned to get the job done.

" _Ah_ ," Doc sighed against Marty's mouth in the aftermath, and then kissed Marty's temple when Marty let his head drop to rest against Doc's shoulder.  "You're a miracle no matter what."

Doc's praise made Marty's cheeks heat, so he burrowed even closer.  "Thanks, I think."

Doc nudged Marty's chin up, the kiss a slow, heady thrill.  "Merry Christmas.  Let's eat."

Cleaned up and situated on Doc's bed with plates of lo mein and fried rice to share, they turned on the larger of Doc's two television sets just in time to catch a Clint Eastwood double-header.  They spent most of _A Fistful of Dollars_ eating and arguing over whether the punch-line, a boiler-plate used as bullet-proof vest, would actually work; they'd both seen this one before, and _together_ , at that, so it wasn't exactly a new argument.

Marty spent a while after the end of the film and into the beginning of the next, _High Plains Drifter_ , thinking about Doc's decision to heed his letter and wear an _actual_ bullet-proof vest in order to prevent his own demise. 

Once they'd cleared the dishes away, Doc held Marty close in their haphazard nest of pillows and covers, sensing Marty’s gradually mounting disquiet. "If you happen to be thinking about what I infer you may be thinking about," he said, "it was foolish of me to _ever_ have considered not listening to you, space-time continuum be damned.  How could I have put you through that?"

"You're a real jackass sometimes, you know that?" muttered Marty, giving Doc a vicious poke in the ribs.  "Kinda like this guy," he said, pointing at the screen, where Clint Eastwood had spent about thirty minutes so far doing very little to recommend himself as an upstanding individual.

"He shouldn't have taken advantage of that woman," Doc agreed, "no matter what happens later in the plot."  He stroked Marty’s hair some more, as if that were his new favorite pastime, and Marty wasn't about to complain.  "Until I met you, I had very little concept of how my actions affect others. And I've _still_ managed to fail you on that front more times than I would care to admit."

"All I care is that you work on it," Marty sighed, closing his eyes. "Not dying is a great start."

Marty drifted in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the film, cradled against Doc's chest. He woke up just in time to see the finale, and the eerie music finally fit.  Okay, so the guy was a ghost.  That made all kinds of sense.  Marty fished in the sheets for the remote control and turned off the television, and then got up to go fetch his duffel bag even though he was exhausted.

"Marty, what are you doing?" Doc asked.  "It's past midnight.  If you're tired, we'll sleep."

"Right, Doc," Marty said, coming back to sit down on the edge of the mattress. "It's past midnight, so it's Christmas Day.  I wanna give you your gifts while this warm-fuzzies kick is in effect."  He handed Doc the signed copy of George's novel, much belated, and then handed him a rattling, wrapped parcel.  "It didn't take much to call back and have them make another copy," he said.

Doc tore open the paper, flipping the audition tape over, genuinely touched.  "This means an awful lot."

"There are, ah," Marty said, yawning, "a few extra tracks.  Some stuff I threw together last week.  It's not much, and they'll sound better when I play 'em for you live, _but_.  Merry Christmas."

"I feel like what I'm offering you in return can't hold a candle," Doc sighed. He got up and went over to the bureau, pulling an envelope out of the top drawer.  "I know that you like these, so you can have them. I have very little use for reminders of my own face, regardless of the year."

Marty opened the envelope and found a stack of familiar photographs inside, grinning. He flipped through them, realizing that Edith and Erhardt must have loved their son more than anything else on earth. They had documented his life with such _exacting_ care. There was a piece of crisp paper quartered beneath the last photograph, so Marty gave Doc a questioning look and unfolded it.

“You mean it's _started_?” Marty asked, lowering the invoice.  "They broke ground a week ago and you didn't tell me about it?  You didn't haul me out there to see shit get underway? _Doc_!"

Doc grinned at him, shrugging.  "I couldn’t have you failing your finals out of distraction."

"We need to go out there at regular intervals, Doc," Marty said, setting both the photographs and the proof of Brown Estate Version 2.0 aside on the nightstand. "I wanna watch this happen."

"That, I can promise," said Doc, throwing back the covers, beckoning. "Without reservations."

"I'll play those tracks for you in the morning," said Marty, and went to him. "No alarms, got it?"

 

 

**March 14 - 15, 1986**

Marty skated to Lyon Estates, feeling guilty that he'd refused to tell Jennifer or the guys what was wrong when one of Strickland's office aides had come in during English class in sixth period and set a note on Marty's desk.  It had been an official slip saying Lorraine had called with the following message: _Come straight home after school, Marty.  I need to talk to you.  Love, Mom._   

Since it was Friday, he would've gone straight to Doc's, and that was now more of a haul than it had once been: Doc had sold off the JFK Drive lot to developers and moved into the garage-slash-lab portion to the new Estate out near Hilldale, the structural counterpart to which had been completed.  The main house was still going up, and the progress had been impressive.

"Okay, I'm here!" Marty shouted, ditching both his skateboard and his backpack (full of clothes and homework) on the front porch as he entered the house. "This had better be good. I've been worried sick for like two hours.  What's so important it couldn't wait?"

Lorraine was seated at the table with a cup of coffee, working on a crossword puzzle.  She set it aside, glancing up at Marty, and reached for an open padded postal envelope in front of her. She pulled out Marty's audition tape and a letter, holding them out to him with a somber expression.

"I'm so sorry, Marty," she said sadly.  "I shouldn't have opened it, but it just couldn't wait. You and the Pinheads didn't win the record deal.  I'm so, so sorry. I wanted this for you, I really did. It would've got you out of here a bit sooner than college, would've let you—"

Marty tossed the tape on the table and sat down beside her, skimming the letter, feeling too curiously distanced from the situation to hear what she was saying.  The record label didn't want them; some other hacks had won the contest.  Well, _great_.  This was exactly why Marty hadn't wanted to enter in the first place, although, beneath the stunning pain of disappointment, he felt a sense of relief. He wouldn't be going anywhere _he_ didn't choose to go, and given he'd kind of been drifting apart from the guys, maybe that was for the best.  He'd attended a few weekend jam-sessions with Louis and three of his cousins; they'd been playing jazz and classic rock, mostly covers, and it was _fun_.

"It's not the end of the world," Marty said, setting the letter down on top of his mother's crossword, trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes. "This could've waited.  You could've just called me over at Doc's in an hour or so and broken the news, no need to worry me at school like that—"

"Marty, _enough_!" shouted Lorraine.  "It's not just about the rejection.  I thought you'd realize that.  I haven't had the pleasure of my youngest son at home for more than two or three weekends since—Jesus, since _Halloween_ last year!"  She steadied her shaking hands on her coffee cup, her eyes glittering.  "Something has to change," she whispered.  "You need to tell me what this is all about, or I'm afraid—I'm _afraid_ —"

"Oh God," said Marty, numbly, reaching for her arm. "Jesus _Christ_ , I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."  _Shouldn't have what?_ Marty wondered, peeling one of her hands off the coffee cup and squeezing it while she shook with tears.  _Shouldn't have pursued my own best chance at happiness and kept it a secret out of necessity?_ "Wait a minute," he said, handing her a napkin out of the holder. "Let's back this up for a second. What are you afraid of?"

"Afraid of what you're not telling me!" Lorraine sobbed, blowing her nose loudly.  "Afraid of what I already suspect!"  She tossed the napkin on the floor, taking another gulp of coffee, and it was then that Marty caught the whiff of rum or Bailey's or whatever she'd put in it. "I won't tell you that you're not allowed to see him," she continued.  "What good would that do?  You'll be eighteen in three months. I can't tell you what to do with your life, but I at least want _you_ to tell _me_ what you're doing with it."  She straightened in her chair, reaching for a fresh napkin, drying her smudged mascara with chagrin. "Now, I'm only going to ask you this once," she said, lowering her voice to a civil level, "and I want the absolute truth."

Marty let go of her hand and took the coffee cup off of her; he sniffed it, identified Bailey's, and drank the burn of it down in one long, jittery swallow. "I'm involved with Doc," he said as levelly as he could in light of the fact that a shot and a half of liqueur had gone straight to his head.

"I already know that," said Lorraine, quietly, contrite for some reason that Marty couldn't fathom (maybe for having been caught with booze). "You've been involved with him for years, and it's all thanks to me and your father thinking he'd be a good influence on you.  For the most part, I think he has been.  But I really have to know, Marty. After you and Jennifer broke up back in the winter, something changed.  I thought maybe you were running to your friend for distraction, but when you started spending two, three nights out of every _week_ down there, I couldn't be sure—"

"It's true," Marty sighed.  "I won't lie to you, especially not since you had the decency to ask with such...with such..."  Fucking _shit_ , he was crying now, too.  "He makes me happy, Ma.  _Really_ happy, and there's nothing to suggest he's lying when he says I make him happy, too. He's never done a thing to hurt me, not intentionally, and I need you to understand that I started this. I'm the one who—who kissed him first, _dammit_ ," he hissed, reaching for a napkin. "I'm the one who asked him to give it a chance.  He's been too alone for too goddamn long.  He never would have _let_ himself be happy.  Can't I at least give him that chance; can't I at least make him as happy as he's made me?"

Lorraine grabbed Marty's hand back and squeezed it even harder. She had the saddest, loveliest smile Marty had ever seen, and she was probably the bravest mom on the planet for not having approached this with screaming or threats or paranoia. Worry, yeah, but Marty couldn't blame her for that.  It was a parent's job to worry, and he didn't know where he'd be without _either_ of his.

"I'm sure you wouldn't have gotten this far if you weren't being smart," she said, "but for the next few months, you have to be careful.  _So_ careful, Marty. I can't emphasize that enough. Your father doesn't suspect a thing; he never would.  It's not in his nature. You know we don't agree with those scaremongers and bigots on the news.  This isn't about the fact you're with a man. This is about the fact that somebody with an axe to grind could've reported Doc for—I don't have to _tell_ you what kind of charges this could bring down on his head. He's not stupid, and neither are you."

"He's not living in the middle of town anymore," Marty said, blowing his nose again, awash in boundless relief, "so that's something. I don't think anybody would have the nerve to Molotov cocktail a building site that's only a stone's throw from Hill Valley's swankiest development—aw, _Ma_. Jesus, sorry.  Please don't cry like that.  I didn't mean to make you think—look, nobody's threatened us!  It's just that I run through the possibilities in the middle of the night so I'm on my guard, but the truth is that this town has been seeing me run around with Doc for three whole _years_ now, and nobody thinks anything of it. To them, I'm still just his dog-sitter and errand-boy and all-around personal assistant.  They don't _care_."

"Oh, I know some people who care," said Lorraine, darkly, "and I don't like the _tone_ of how they care one bit.  Biff asks your father questions sometimes that make my skin crawl, but of course your father laughs it off and Biff never gets the answer he's looking for.  He doesn't like Doc Brown much; he never has.  It's part envy, part ignorant fear of the educated elite.  It makes no sense to me why he's insisted on sucking up to your father all these years.  Maybe because it's mutually useful."

"This is important," Marty said.  "I'm gonna tell you who else knows about me and Doc, and I don't want you to be scared, okay?"  He took a steadying breath.  "Jennifer knows.  She's known since Christmas, and I'd go nuts if I didn't have her to confide in.  The other person who knows, well, that's less than ideal. Tiff's a perceptive kid. She cornered me about it once. She guessed, and she was right," Marty lied, because the last thing his mother needed to know was that he'd once been reckless enough to kiss Doc in the DeLorean in broad daylight and had been _seen_. "Fortunately, the buck stops with her, because the next thing she told me is that she kisses girls."

Lorraine sighed and stared up at the ceiling, trying to stave off further tears. "That poor kid," she said. "I can't imagine knowing that about myself and then having parents who'd throw me out if they knew." She let go of Marty's hand, got a fresh napkin, and blew her nose a few more times.  "Thank you for being honest.  I'm still afraid for you, but how can help it? You're my baby, Marty."

So there was no avoiding getting up and hugging the hell out of her on her way over to the coffee machine, and there was no avoiding the way they broke down sobbing in each other's arms.  Marty's nose was running all over his mother's nice blouse.  Thank fucking _God_ Lorraine Baines McFly was the woman who'd brought him into this world. If the alternative had been someone like Jo Tannen, who knew where that would've left him?

"Oh," said Linda, dropping her keys as she came into the house. "Is this a bad time? I can go out again and come back later. I don't mind.  I'll let you guys have your disgusting snot-fest in peace."

"Oh, be quiet," snapped Lorraine, gathering her composure. "Your brother and I were just having a moment.  His band didn't win the record deal, and you know how Marty gets his hopes up.  He's a dreamer just like your father, and we love him for it, don't we?"

Marty grabbed some paper towel and wiped his eyes, suddenly grateful for his mother's years of experience with lying to others, usually disapproving family, in order to cover her own ass.  "Ugh, sure, whatever you say," he muttered, blowing his nose and clearing his throat.  "Thanks."

"Gross," said Linda, grabbing a mug, pouring herself some coffee. "I'll be in my room going over these sales reports of you need me.  I _do_ love you guys, but this is too mushy for my taste."

"Get your stuff, Marty," said Lorraine, leaning on the kitchen counter. "I'll drive you out to Hilldale. Doc's probably wondering where you are by now, worried sick.  That's a dreadful feeling."

Marty looked up at her, blinking in shock.  "You mean—you're actually going to _let_ me—"

"It's not about letting you," she reminded him gently. "As far as I'm concerned, if you've been this smart about a mature relationship for five months, you're an adult, and you can make your own decisions.  Besides," she added, "I haven't _talked_ to him in a while, and I feel bad about that."

"Haven't talked to Doc?" asked Marty, incredulously. "Why not? He'd talk almost _anyone's_ ear off given half a chance.  He may be a loner by circumstance, but he's not antisocial." He cleared his throat again, staring at the floor.  "My stuff's on the porch.  Ready when you are."

What happened next reminded Marty of nothing so much as his mother barging into Doc's garage uninvited in 1955.  As soon as they arrived on the building site, she was out of the car and knocking on Doc's temporary-residence door faster than Marty could get there.

Doc's eyebrows about hit the ceiling when he saw who he was letting in alongside Marty, and they inched ever higher with each passing minute Lorraine buzzed around the space and gushed about what he could do with such fantastic property and an opportunity like this one. By the time they managed to shoo her off, he looked a bit like he'd endured a round of surprise electro-shock therapy.

"Great _Scott_ ," he muttered, locking the door behind her. "What was that all about? You would think I hadn't planned these premises thoroughly enough.  And what's wrong with your eyes?"

"She knows, Doc," Marty sighed, bending to greet Einstein.  "She tricked me into coming straight home from school instead of coming out here, and then she guessed," he continued.  "And she was _right_.  And, wonder of fucking wonders, she has no intention of running you through with a real-estate-sign stake.  All she asks is that we continue to be careful. There were a lot of tears, Doc. _That's_ what's wrong with my eyes."

Doc hugged him, and then pulled back at Marty's bidding for a kiss. "Then we're far more fortunate than I ever could have guessed," he said.  "Jennifer and Tiff aren't unwelcome allies, but your mother is a force to be reckoned with.  I'm glad you'll have her support, Marty."

"From the look of things," Marty said, "you'll have it, too. You'll have it for everything from getting treated like her son-in-law without your express consent to advice on developing your property!"

"Son-in-law," muttered Doc, bemused.  "Your mother's eighteen years my junior.  This _is_ heavy."

"I'm more than _forty_ years your junior, and you don't care," Marty replied. "What has time got to do with anything? That's the real problem, isn't it? Most people have screwed-up ideas about age difference."

"Marty, you still look upset," Doc said.  "How did your mother trick you into going home?"

"It wasn't really a trick," Marty sighed.  "The audition tape came back with a rejection letter."

"Then you'll try again next time there's an open call," Doc insisted, pulling Marty over to the armchair.  "What can I do to cheer you up?" he asked, sitting on the ottoman in front of Marty.

"Pretend our evening didn't get wrecked," Marty said. "Pretend everything's normal. What were you doing before my mother barged in here, anyway?  Show me what you're working on."

"I was at the typewriter," said Doc, pointing at his desk. "Working on next week's column."

"Let's order food for delivery," replied Marty, "and then you can read me what you've got."

They had a quiet evening full of moderately spicy Thai dishes and Doc's expressive narration of his column draft.  Marty picked awkwardly at his drunken noodles with chopsticks until Doc came over and showed him how to use them properly; for some reason, they never requested them when they got other kinds of Asian take-out, and this time they'd just come with dinner as a matter of course.  Marty dropped bits of chicken all over himself, ruining his shirt, but it was worth Doc's laughter.

After that, they turned on the television and got into bed, too wiped out to even fool around.  Marty lay awake for a long time after Doc had dozed off and he'd turned off the television, stroking Doc's hair like Doc tended to do with his.  It must have been past midnight when he was finally tired enough to drift off to sleep, and, as his eyes slid shut, Doc whispered words he couldn't catch.

In the morning, Marty woke up to sweet, unhurried kisses and Doc asking him what he wanted for breakfast.  _You_ , he wanted to say, just to be a smart-ass, but Doc had a state-of-the-art stove in his lab kitchenette and couldn't wait to use it.  Doc making French toast was the worst idea in history, but he had a refrigerator, too, and groceries that hadn't been there for over a month.  Marty helped, and, miraculously, nothing got burnt.

"Don't be so discouraged," Doc was saying, pleased with the result of Marty's meddling.  "That rejection _isn't_ the end of your musical career, not if you don't want it to be." He passed the syrup over to Marty and watched him accidentally pour too much of it.  "What about college?  That's an adventure.  Where did you apply, and what kind of weekend-visit distance are we talking?"

"I may be a good student, but I'm a lazy-ass, Doc," he said. "I've only applied to Stanford and HVCC.  Hallowed halls and the local rogues' gallery where my old man teaches.  You used to teach there, didn't you?  Physics or something?  Why'd you stop?  Not conducive to time travel?"

Doc shrugged.  "Because there were a handful of things I'd always wanted to do— _yes_ , inventing my time machine included.  You have to admit that it really was the achievement of a lifetime."

"And risky, and _expensive_ ," Marty pointed out, grinning, "but yeah, Doc.  It was amazing."

Doc ate some more French toast, giving Marty a considering look. "Stanford's a few hours by car," he said.  "Not ideal. That's my alma mater, though, so I consider the annoyance well worth it."

"Doc, I kinda just hope I get into HVCC and don't have to make that decision," Marty sighed.

"You'll get into HVCC because almost anyone bright and local can get in there, _and_ your dad's faculty," Doc replied, "but you'd be able to live at home or nearby and, selfishly, I'd be glad—"

"When you say _home_ , Doc," ventured Marty, hopefully, "what do you mean by that?"

Doc busied himself with cutting the rest of his French toast.  "I have my hopes," he said, "but I won't make assumptions."

 _I think you wanna ask me to move in when this place is finished_ , Marty thought, _and you know I'd accept in a heartbeat._ "Commuting to Stanford every day would make no sense," he said, "and then I'd have to wait to mostly just see you on weekends, and that would be a drag."

"I'd think about renting an apartment in Menlo Park or Palo Alto for during the week," Doc said.  "We could spend weekends back here; I'd pay Tiff to look in on Einstein the rest of the time."

"Let's not count our chickens before they're hatched, okay?" Marty said. "Pass the juice."

 

 

**June 12 - 13, 1986**

Doc was the first to arrive, just like Marty knew he would be, so he went out on the porch with his hands in his pockets the minute he heard the DeLorean pull up.  He stood on the front steps, watching Doc meticulously parallel-park.  The driveway and the garage were both full, what with Marty's parents' cars and Marty's truck and Dave's tricked-out Jeep. The street in front of their house would be full within the hour.

"Are you ready for this?" Doc asked, coming toward the steps. Marty intercepted him and pulled him over to the wooden door leading to the passageway between house and garage.  He tugged Doc inside, closing the door behind them; Doc followed without protest.  "Marty, _what_ —"

Useless question, because Marty had him pinned against the garage siding for a kiss in two seconds flat.  They lingered for half a minute or so and then pulled apart; Marty gave Doc a sheepish, apologetic grin.  "Ready as I'll ever be," he said.  "Sorry.  Had to get that out of my system."

"Fair enough," said Doc, hugging him tight.  "So did I.  Happy Birthday, Future Boy."

"Are you gonna call me that for the rest of my life?" Marty asked, his cheeks heating, leading Doc back out into the driveway and up the front steps.  "If you're not careful, I might start to like it."

"For as long as I can get away with it," said Doc, composing his expression as the door opened.

Lorraine was the one to greet them, shooing Marty back inside with an exasperated sigh.  "It's so good to see you, Emmett," she told Doc, and then hugged him with a vibrant enthusiasm that Marty could recognize as his own; maybe George wasn't lying when he claimed Marty took mostly after his mother.  "Can I get you anything?  Lemonade?  Iced tea?  Beer? Glass of wine?"  
  
"Iced tea would suffice, Lorraine," he told her, joining Marty on the sofa while she went to the kitchen.  "That tile estimate you gave me was spot-on, and it's nearly all in place.  Looks fantastic."  
  
"Some wine for me," said Marty, as an afterthought.  "Is there any of that white dad likes?"  
  
"It's all out back in the cooler," Lorraine told Marty, bringing Doc his drink, "and the glasses are out there, too.  Just go and help yourself."  She sat down beside Doc as Marty got up, setting a hand on his arm.  "As I was saying, what you're going to need for finishing touches..."  
  
Marty left them to it, because the fact that Doc's house was finished all except for the upstairs bathroom wasn’t news to him.  They'd been using the sprawling kitchen and the eerily familiar living room and sleeping in Doc's understated, yet lavish new bedroom for a few weeks now.  Truth be told, they'd been doing a lot more than _that_.  Marty had decided to take the whole room-christening business seriously, and as absurd as Doc had claimed to find it, he'd warmed to the idea pretty fast.  
  
Marty poured himself a glass of artisan Pinot Gris from Napa Valley that had cost something like twenty bucks a bottle, and then went over to watch George work at the grill.  He had a tantalizing array of chicken, ribs, hot dogs, and even tofu-things (those were for Louis and one of his three cousins, Toni the formidable drummer, who were vegetarians) ready to go.  George was wearing Lorraine's _LEAVE THE COOK ALONE_ apron and had a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead as he concentrated on flipping the last few chicken breasts and hot dogs. Marty took pity on him and set the glass of wine on the picnic tray at his elbow, tapping George's arm.  
  
"Thirsty work, huh, Dad?" he asked.  "Have an early drink; it won't kill you.  Doc's here, and I'm pretty sure the rest are on the way.  Mom's already yakkin' his ear off about interior decorating."  
  
"Better him than me," George sighed, wiping his brow, reaching for the wine.  He drank half the glass down in great, greedy swallows.  "You were probably too young at the time to remember this, but your mother was a nightmare when we remodeled.  Everything had to be perfect."  
  
"Hah, no," Marty reassured him, going over to pour himself another glass of wine.  "I remember.  The rug fire involving that Sears-catalog chemistry set you'd got me for Christmas was right after the job was finished.  You guys had to pay to have that section of floor done again.  She was livid."  
  
George looked strangely distant for a second, and then drank some more wine.  He stopped short when Lorraine came out through the back door with Doc, Tiff, and Einstein in tow.  Tiff had been walking Einstein for Doc, it looked like, because she still had him on a leash.  She handed the dog off to Doc and dashed over to hug Marty, pressing a colorful card to his chest.  
  
"I wanted to get here before Dad comes over with Mom and the twins," she said, letting go of Marty.  "Happy Birthday," she said, and then glanced at George.  "Can Einstein stay, Mr. McFly?  I promise I'll keep him under control."  
  
"Of course," said George, winking at his wife.  "As long as Lorraine agrees with me."  
  
Doc glanced over Marty's shoulder while Marty opened the card and Lorraine made her way out front to see whose car they had all just heard pulling up.  Tiff found a stick and waved it at Einstein, attempting to interest the dog in a game of fetch.  Marty couldn't help but smile at the card's contents; it wished him both a Happy Graduation (that had happened a week ago) _and_ a Happy Birthday.  _Your friend always, Tiff,_ she'd signed it.  
  
"She's a good kid," Doc said, sipping his iced tea.  "Maybe a bit of a devil, but that's just straight-up genetics.  I think she'll turn out all right."  
  
"Nature over nurture, Doc?" Marty asked, folding the construction-paper card, tucking it carefully in his back pocket.  "Look who's here," Marty said under his breath.  "Am I actually seeing this, or has the wine gone to my head?"  
  
Lorraine was leading a veritable tour-group of people back around the side of the house.  Candace, Goldie, and Louis all had Corningware dishes in hand; Toni, Emerson, and Isadine took up the rear.  Emerson flashed Marty a peace sign.  Strickland was at Lorraine's elbow; as they approached, Marty could make out that his mother was saying something that sounded like _No college letters yet, I just don't understand it_.  
  
Marty averted his eyes as they approached.  "Principal Strickland," he said, offering Gerald his hand.  "What brings you out here?  Do you make house-calls at every one of your students' birthday-slash-graduation parties, or did you just happen to be in the neighborhood?"  
  
"You were in danger of becoming a real slacker in the course of this past year, McFly," said Strickland, gruffly shaking Marty's hand, "but you pulled through and got to graduation in one piece.  I'm proud of you."  He glanced questioningly at George's apron.  "I never did understand your hobbies, George," he said, "but these kids of yours turned out all right."  
  
"Thank you, Gerald," said George, smoothly, reaching for the nearby stack of polystyrene plates, selecting one for him.  "So thoughtful of you to notice.  Can I offer you something from the grill?"  
  
While Strickland, his parents, and Doc got lost in some kind of reminiscence surrounding the time his parents had been in high school, Marty went to greet the Wilsons and show them where the food should go.  Candace handed Marty a card with one handsome, elegantly manicured hand, and he thanked her.  He set it aside on the small stack that had begun to accrue next to the cake.  
  
"Marty!" Jennifer shouted, dashing around the side of the house, and it soon became apparent why she was running.  Einstein was chasing her at full tilt, overjoyed to see her after so many months; meanwhile, Tiff was shouting for him to come back.  "Help her get Einie under control?" she asked, breathlessly, snagging Marty's shoulder just in time to wheel around and hide behind him.  
  
Tiff got hold of the leash and reined Einstein in just shy of slobbering all over Marty in attempt to get at Jennifer.  "I don't know what got into him," said the girl, mystified; meanwhile, in a turn of excellent timing, Biff and Jo were coming around the side of the house with the twins trailing after.  
  
"Hey, Marty," said Biff, eyeing the tableau with his signature befuddlement.  "Happy Birthday."  He scowled at Tiff and Einstein.  "You mean to tell me you're still walkin' that mongrel?"  
  
"Oh, Einstein's no mongrel," said Doc, coming over to shake Biff's hand.  "I'm not sure we've ever properly met.  I'm Doctor Emmett Brown, and Einie here is an _almost_ purebred Polish Lowland sheepdog.  Your daughter very kindly walks him for me a few days a week.  It's a good job for a kid, isn't it?" Doc asked, smiling at Jo, who'd been the one to assent to Tiff taking up the employment.  "Animal companions teach responsibility."  
  
Jennifer's parents weren't that far behind the Tannens.  Danny and Melissa both had huge Tupperware bowls, so Marty peeled away from the dog-related fracas as gracefully as he could manage in order to greet them and show them where to put the food.  Melissa thanked him, handing him a card, promptly excusing herself to go off in search of Lorraine.  Danny and Marty were left glancing awkwardly at each other, surveying the spread.  
  
"Jennifer's off to Smith in the fall," he said.  "She told you yet?  What am I saying, 'course she has.  You two are tight.  I'm glad of it.  She gets wrapped up in her head with all that writing she does."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with writing," said Marty, tilting his head in his father's direction.  "Why don't you go over and get something from my dad at the grill?  It's a pleasure to see you, Mr. Parker."

"Still don't know what school you're going to attend?" Danny asked, starting to walk away.

Marty shrugged. "My applications must be giving them a run for their money.  We'll see."

A handful of other neighbors and classmates trickled in over the next hour. All in all, there were about thirty people milling about at any given time, and that was just enough to keep Marty constantly occupied in his role as birthday-boy-and-co-host. Doc glanced at him every so often, his eyes alight, apparently finding the sheer number of people who were interested in talking to him about his column novel.  The food was great, and the in-jest speeches from Dave, Lorraine, George, and a fashionably late Linda were even _better_.  Marty let the crowd goad him into saying a few words by way of response, although it wasn't anything he was going to be proud of later.

"What I'd really like to do is play for you," he concluded, "because I don't know of any better way to express my thanks to everybody for, God knows _why_ , bothering to come. Who wants to dance?"

As per Marty's request, Louis had brought his guitar, Isadine had brought her tenor sax, and Emerson had brought his clarinet.  Lacking a drum-set, Toni was more than willing to make do with the effects at her disposal on Marty's keyboard; so, between the five of them, they got some pretty bitchin' oldies off the ground.  _Johnny B. Goode_ was still a crowd-pleaser, although Marty avoided watching his parents on the dance-floor.  He preferred to let Louis take the vocals; it was safer.

After they'd played a while and darkness had fallen, Doc helped George start a fire and get the skewers ready for s'mores and the remaining hot dogs.  Marty drank with Jennifer, Louis, the Wilson cousins, and Trav; Lenny and Emil had found compelling reasons not to be there. They watched the kids wreak havoc with chocolate and marshmallows, which went hand in hand with watching Einstein beg his way through every single person holding food. Sometimes, he got lucky.

"I'm afraid we'll have to put Einie on a diet," said Doc, coming up behind Marty and Louis with a glass in hand.  Marty scooted over and patted the spot next to him on the blanket he'd been sharing with Louis; he squinted at the glass as Doc sat down, determining more from smell than anything else that it was some of the Pinot Gris.  "He's getting spoiled tonight."

"Hiya, Doc," said Jennifer, from the next blanket over; she'd been lounging beside Trav for a while now, and Marty couldn't help but notice they were getting a bit touchy-feely.  "How's it going?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" whispered Marty, pointing at Doc's glass. "You get headaches."

Doc waved Marty off, took a sip of wine, and addressed Jennifer.  "I've been doing great, thanks for asking. The house is just about finished. Have Marty bring you up sometime to see it."

"It's a shame about your old digs, man," said Trav, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the grass.

Doc shrugged, pensively considering the contents of his glass.  "Out with the old, in with the new."

Marty leaned into Doc ever so slightly, letting their shoulders touch.  It felt wonderful just to sit like this, shooting the shit with friends and not really caring about what the immediate future might hold. Louis took a drag on Trav's cigarette, handing it back to him; on the third blanket, Emerson was dozing while Toni and Isadine ( _Two older sisters, ouch,_ Marty thought) snickered and stuck clover-blossoms in his hair.

Doc watched them with distant eyes, shaking his head at nothing particular, and quietly drank.

"You look all peopled-out," said Marty, softly, tilting his head toward Doc. "Wanna go inside?"

Doc lifted his wrist, considered his watch, and whispered back, "Maybe.  It's nearly midnight."

"We should think about getting Einstein outta here," Marty said, stretching. "Long day for a person, even _longer_ day for a dog. I'm afraid he's gonna be sick with all he's eaten.  Hey! _Einie_!"

He arrived with Tiff in dedicated pursuit; she frowned as Doc got to his feet and leashed the dog.

"You're leaving?" she asked, sounding disappointed  "I guess you won't need me for a few days?"

"How about you tend him this weekend?" Doc asked, helping Marty to his feet. "We might be going out of town for most of Saturday and Sunday.  Einie could use the walks _and_ the company."  They hadn't quite decided where they were going (maybe just to the lake with a tent and some fishing poles, or maybe out to Palo Alto or Menlo Park to get a feel for the real-estate market because Doc was always thinking ahead), but what they _had_ decided was that they needed a vacation outside Hill Valley.  Preferably one that didn't involve lightning storms or surviving in another decade.

"You bet," said Tiff, awkwardly lingering.  She bent down and hugged the dog.  "Good night."

Marty didn't bother to track everyone down and say his goodbyes before slipping around to the front of the house with Doc and Einstein.  Lorraine knew he wouldn't be home much now that school was out, and _especially_ not the night of his birthday.  Doc fished in his pockets for the car keys, sighing.  Marty pulled them out of Doc's breast pocket and studied his face, questioning. The key-ring felt heavier somehow as he pressed it into Doc's hand.  Doc gave him a sad, noticeably tipsy half-smile.

"Perhaps my mind's starting to go," he said.   "What the hell are you doing with a has-been of an inventor like me, anyhow?  I can tell a couple of those Wilson kids would nab you in a heartbeat."

"Don't say that, Doc," replied Marty, indignant, fairly tipsy himself. "You're a—a crazy, brilliant, _sexy_ old bastard with tacky shirts," he blurted, "and I love you. _Especially_ when you wear the shirts."

Doc's lips quirked as he lowered his eyes, opening the DeLorean, and then grinned fit to outshine the sun. "You too, Marty," he said. "You're my _world_ , and there'd be no sense in denying it."

"Well, _good_ ," said Marty, hustling Einstein into the vehicle.  "I'm glad we're in agreement here."

"Marty, I'm worried about your college letters," said Doc, going around to the driver's seat while Marty got in the passenger-side door.  "I heard you tell several people you haven't gotten them."

"That's, _ah_ ," Marty admitted, rummaging in his backpack behind the seat, pulling out the two unopened envelopes, "not exactly true. They came in at the end of last week. I didn't want my mom or anybody else to get to them before I did.  I wanted to wait and open 'em with _you_."

"Close your door," said Doc, pulling down his own. "Don't do a thing just yet, because I don't want the contents of _either_ of those letters to influence—"  He sighed, pulling the keys back out of the ignition, flipping through keys until he came to a separate small ring with three or four shining, freshly-cut keys that Marty hadn't noticed before.  He removed it, put it in Marty's hand, and said, "Happy Birthday. You may come and go as you please, and feel free to move in as much stuff as you'd like."

"Hell, Doc, I'm bringing _all_ of it," Marty told him, staring at the keys.  "Linda's been wanting to turn my bedroom into her office for _months_. She says it's a crime, all the junk I have in there."

Doc breathed out, the exhalation a giddy laugh; Marty hugged him, legitimately _beyond_ caring if anybody happened to see.  "What _are_ we going to do if one of those says you got into Stanford?"

"We'll figure it out, Doc," said Marty, grinning, starting to open the first letter. "We always do."


	3. Open Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I don’t want a Garden of Eden / I just want to bring you to life / If you've got a light inside, then open your eyes_
> 
> —["Garden of Eden," Rob Cantor](http://8tracks.com/irisbleufic/back-to-the-future-always-running-out-of-time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ETA:** Edgebug [**has done a lovely illustration**](http://edgebugart.tumblr.com/post/133109010911/irisbleufic-wrote-a-gr8-thing-where-marty-wore) of something that happens in this section, [**as has Rudigerblues**](http://irisbleufic.tumblr.com/post/114363676465/so-i-commissioned-rudigerblues-to-do-art-for-your).

**June 13 – 15, 1986**

****Marty stared at the piece of paper in his hand, squinting at it in the dim, ominous light filtering in from the street-lamps. He hadn't drunk so much wine that he was incapable of reading, but four paragraphs of polite bureaucratic drivel felt like the punch-line to a bad joke. He hadn't been paying attention to which school's correspondence he'd ripped open first; now, he was paying for his carelessness in _spades_.

"I can't stand the suspense," said Doc, reaching for the letter. "What does it say?"

"Stanford wait-listed me, Doc," Marty sighed, tossing the letter on the floor. "Game over. Let's see what HVCC says, huh? Or is there even any point?" he waved the remaining unopened letter at Doc, tossing it into his lap. "Do the honors. I feel sick."

"You didn't tell me you had your hopes pinned firmly to one or the other," said Doc, in a surprisingly reasonable tone for as tired as he was, extracting the letter with care. He folded it open against the steering wheel, squinting at it much as Marty had done with Stanford's letter, which was now crinkling under Marty's feet along with the reply envelope they'd included. "Well, you _did_ get in. It's not a terrible place to go to school, Marty, and plenty of people transfer to other institutions after a semester or two."

"Oh, thanks," Marty sighed, staring out the window, ignoring Einstein's concerned lick at his elbow. "Can we just hit the road? I'm tired, and you know we've got those appointments tomorrow." Part of him didn't like being the sensible one in _any_ situation, but, for some reason, he always _was_.

Tracking down a clinic that was friendly to— _nontraditional relationships_ was how he'd put it to himself—had been easy, but telling Doc he'd made appointments had been a delicate endeavor. He'd couched it in terms of wanting to make sure time travel hadn't fucked them up, and Doc had agreed that a physical exam would provide him with more data on what he'd had done in the twenty-first century. And that had been that.

"Don't worry about it, we'll still get plenty of sleep," Doc said, but he handed the HVCC letter to Marty and fired up the ignition. "You're at eleven, and I'm at eleven-thirty, right? I was thinking—all right, I _researched_ Stanford admissions data for the past decade or so, I admit it. They saw a record number of undergraduate applicants last year, just over seventeen _thousand_ , so—don't tune out on me, Marty, I _know_ it's intimidating, and it doesn't get any less so when you consider their average acceptance rate is five to six percent. What I'm trying to say is that they likely saw a similarly high number of applicants this year, so the fact that you got wait-listed is something to be proud of."

Marty nodded slowly, taking this in as Doc drove, reaching back to scratch under Einie's chin. "I agree those are intimidating odds," he said. "What are my chances of getting off the wait-list and, _ah_ , admitted? Look, I'm sorry. I don't think I knew I wanted this."

Doc shrugged, carefully turning once the light went green. "As I understand it, they wait-list around a thousand people, and only around half of those accept wait-list status. From amongst those, it looks like around ten percent get shifted to the accepted list as and when accepted candidates drop out or miss the response deadline, _et cetera_."

Chagrined, Marty collected the letter and response envelope from underfoot. "So I've gotta send both of these out tomorrow. Yes, HVCC, I'm coming, but only to cover my ass. Yes, Stanford, I accept the crap-shoot limbo status into which you've shunted me."

"You deserve a respite from all of this," Doc sighed. "Do you still want to spend Saturday and Sunday scouting Palo Alto and Menlo Park, or do you want to do something else?" He made an expansive, helpless gesture. "I don't want to cause you undue stress."

"Hell with it," Marty said. "Let's just go up to the lake. We've got a tent and fishing poles. I haven't _really_ been camping since August last year."

"As long as you think it'll help you unwind," Doc said, "then I'm all for it."  Einstein whimpered and nosed at Doc's shoulder, so Doc took one hand off the steering wheel and patted him.  "Don't worry, Einie.  Marty's going to be fine.  We're almost home."  He glanced at Marty thoughtfully.  "Maybe we don't need Tiff to dog-sit after all?  The lake might do Einie some good.  He can swim and carry around sticks. Herd the ducks."

Marty put his arms around the dog's neck, comforted by the fact that even what most people would call a dumb beast gave a shit about his distress. "I hate to say it," Marty sighed, hugging the dog till he felt marginally better, "but I wouldn't want to put him in any danger. Suppose he ran off and—" _and some redneck asshole decided it would be fun to shoot our dog or something because of, well, narrow-minded bullshit_ , he thought, hoping his tone of voice was sufficient to convey the sentiment. The drive was slightly longer now, and Einstein was getting restless.

"You may be right," said Doc, reluctantly, his inflection indicating he'd received the message loud and clear. "Besides, the point of this weekend is to focus on whatever _your_ heart desires. I want this to be a birthday you'll always remember."

"I already couldn't forget it if I tried," said Marty, grinning in spite of himself. They were nearing the long driveway up to the new Brown Estate, and Einie had begun wagging his tail hard enough to make a racket against the back of Marty's seat. "I'm afraid I'm way too tired to make it more interesting for _you_ tonight, but we've got Saturday night and—and always, Doc. We've gotta think about how many trips it's gonna take to get all my stuff up here from my parents' place. Some of my stuff's in the attic."

"Fortunately, between your truck and the utility van, I'd say it's a done deal," replied Doc, yawning, and parked them in front of the garage. "I'm beat. Come on, Einie. Out of the car. No treats before bed after what you ate at that party, I'm afraid..."

It was their first night together in nearly a week (Marty's family had been demanding in the lead-up to graduation, and rightly so). Marty scrubbed up and brushed his teeth in the downstairs bathroom while Doc used the upstairs one, too tired to take the chance on falling asleep while he waited for it, and then dragged his tired, half-naked butt upstairs to collapse on the softness of Doc's high-thread-count cotton sheets. Jesus, the new mattress had to be king-size _at least_. He'd left the letters downstairs on the table; he wasn't going to think about them till morning.

Marty woke from his slight doze when Doc, bent over the bed and gently nudging, kissed him. Doc tasted like mint toothpaste and smelled like some aftershave that wasn't as fancy as George's, but still wasn't totally pedestrian. Vaguely turned on, but too tired to do anything about it, Marty mumbled about wanting to wrap up in him till morning.

"Scoot over, Future Boy," whispered Doc, turning off the bedside lamp before climbing into bed beside him, pulling up the covers. "Some of us aren't as talented as you are when it comes to sprawling. There's no need to rub it in."

Marty flipped Doc off, curling into him with a content shiver. Some people didn't like being sprawled _on_ , but Doc took it like a champ. Doc rubbed Marty's back in slow, even strokes. Marty sighed, running his fingers from Doc's shoulder down to his elbow, and fell asleep.

They woke up around ten the next morning (or, rather, _Doc_ woke up around ten and spent fifteen minutes cajoling Marty with the promise of drive-through breakfast sandwiches) and actually reached the clinic on time. Marty blitzed his paperwork while Doc spent way too much time putting way too much detail into his. The nurse practitioner who called Marty back to weigh him and take his blood pressure was maybe forty-ish: slim, bespectacled, and swish as _fuck_. Turned out the same guy was running the rest of his exam, which was okay, Marty guessed, except some of the requisite prodding and swabbing set his teeth on edge. He'd never liked going to the doctor as a kid.

"All right, necessary question. Don't take it the wrong way. Deep breaths first. That's it," said the nurse, changing his latex gloves out for a fresh pair, sticking in his stethoscope ear-pieces in order to listen to Marty's lungs. "I assume we're doing the full works here today because you're sexually active, is that correct? For how long?"

"Yep," said Marty, and took another set of breaths as instructed. "For about eight months now? I know I shouldn't have let this go, so don't—"

"Your age, or older?" asked the nurse, apparently satisfied with Marty's breathing.

"He's older than I am by a bit, yeah," said Marty, abruptly defensive, "but he's in good health. As far as I know, there's nothing wrong with either of us. This is a precaution."

"From what I've seen, I believe you," said the nurse, reaching for his clipboard. "Another sensitive question, but also necessary. Acts in which you've engaged to date?"

Marty closed his eyes and shook his head, disbelieving; it was indignity enough to be stripped down to nothing under a thin medical gown for a complete stranger, but he clearly hadn't thought about the information he'd have to disclose. "Kissing," he said. " _Lots_. Just about anything you can do with your mouth and your hands. Nothing else."

The nurse fetched his pen from the counter, scribbled something, and winked at Marty (less in the I'm-hitting-on-you kind of way, more in the let-me-offer-you-some-advice kind of way, but still creepy). "If you want to keep him, you may want to change your mind about the nothing-else part. If you do, just make sure you use condoms till the results come back." He looked up, remembering something. "No previous partners?"

Marty shook his head, glancing to one side. "No," he said. "None that I slept with."

"Hey," said the nurse, patting him on the shoulder. "I remember what it was like to be your age. Rough game. I just want you to get through in one piece, okay? You're set."

"Thanks," said Marty, forcing himself to meet the guy's eyes, hopping off the table. "I'll keep that in mind." He grabbed his clothes off the chair and waited till the nurse left. _No more show for you_ , he thought, stripping down fast, changing back into his underwear.

Dressed and antsy, Marty sat in the waiting room and flipped through magazines until Doc was finished with his turn. He looked like nothing was amiss when he came over to tap Marty on the wrist, so he must've lucked out as far as a nurse with actual tact.

"She said I'm in excellent shape," said Doc, cheerfully, "so the tune-up must have paid off. She seems to believe it's because I get plenty of exercise, almost never drink, and haven't smoked. Not tobacco, anyway, not for _years_ , but I didn't say that."

Marty rolled up the magazine as he stood, thwapping Doc on the arm. "Get out of town. I would never have guessed." He set the _National Geographic_ back on the side-table next to the mildly horrifying informational flyers. "I tried weed a couple times. It wasn't great. The first time, it was Jennifer who got her hands on some—I don't know _how_ —and I flat-out fell asleep. The second time, it was with Trav and the guys, and I swear I got so paranoid I freaked them out.  I felt like my throat was tingling or closing up or something.  I couldn't breathe. I said a lot of shit that made no sense. They never let me live it down, and it'd be fine by me if I never had it again." He sighed, still unnerved by what the nurse had said. "Let's get out of here," he added, heading for the door, although he couldn't help pausing next to the receptionist's window. "Hey, FYI—that dark-haired guy with the trendy glasses? Have a word with him about his bedside manner."

Before the receptionist could ask Marty what he meant, he pushed his way out through the double doors and only stopped once Doc had caught up with him, blinking in the harsh sunlight. Doc spun him around, peering at Marty with undisguised concern.

"No, _no_ ," Marty said, taking hold of Doc's forearms. "It wasn't like that. He didn't make a pass at me. He was just...sorta brusque. I don't like doctor visits. Didn't appreciate it."

Doc's light grip on Marty's shoulders tightened, and, yeah, he'd cash in on that hug once they were back at home, but mostly he just wanted to forget about the exam. "There's no excuse for that kind of behavior from a medical professional even so," Doc said.

Marty nodded, tilting his head at the truck. "Let's _go_ , Doc. We've gotta pack."

They returned to a jittery, prone-to-jumping Einstein, so they took him out for a walk and grabbed lunch from a taco stand while they were at it. A couple of hours later, they returned to the house and fed the dog so he'd be less likely to get underfoot while they packed. Almost everything they needed was out in the garage anyway, which meant that was where they were when a car pulled up outside. Doc answered the door.

"Marty, I can't _believe_ you left these behind," said Lorraine, predictably pushing past Doc, waving the whole stack of birthday-and-graduation cards in one hand. "And you didn't say goodbye to anyone! Where are your manners?" She sighed and kissed him on the cheek, shoving the cards into his hands whether he liked it or not. "Send thank-yous."

"I almost didn't believe my ears when Lorraine said you were rebuilding this place," said George, shaking Doc's hand as he stepped inside with tentative awe. "And this is just the _garage_?" His eyes swept over Doc's projects with undisguised envy. "Wow."

"Look at that," Marty said, dropping the cards on the nearest piece of furniture, which was the old red armchair (Doc hadn't had the strength to part with it). "He's a kid again."

"Don't let him fool you," said Lorraine, folding her arms across her chest. "He's _always_ been a kid, just a big kid with a hyperactive imagination. That's all part of his charm."

"My hyperactive imagination helps pay the bills, Lorraine," said George, distractedly, making a circuit of the unusual space; meanwhile, Doc tailed him with that sharp-eyed look of disgruntlement that Marty found too endearing for his own good. "Look at _this_!"

It took about twenty minutes for Marty and Doc to convince George and Lorraine that they ought to come up to the house for iced tea. While Doc was rummaging in the refrigerator and Marty pulled down glasses from the cupboard, Lorraine stumbled across the college letters, _minus_ Marty's mailed-off response forms, and started shouting at Marty about having hidden them from her. Doc poured four half-glasses of iced tea, hitting the bottom of the pitcher, and gave Marty a worried-circa-1955 look.

"Don't listen to your mother," said George, wandering into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. "I'm proud of you. HVCC will be happy to have you, and so will I."

"It isn't about the fact he didn't get into Stanford!" Lorraine yelled. "It's that he hid the letters! He could've missed the response deadlines for all we knew, George! _Marty_ —"

"I didn't miss the deadlines, Ma," Marty reassured her, breezing past George with two glasses in hand. He stuck one of them in Lorraine's non-letter-occupied hand and gestured for her to sit down on the sofa. "Stanford didn't _reject_ me. I'm wait-listed."

Lorraine set the letters down on the coffee table in a huff, taking a long swallow of her tea. George crept around the opposite side of the coffee table and sat down beside her, giving Marty an encouraging, if terrified smile. "I hope you said yes to both," Lorraine continued. "That's the smart thing. Hedge your bets. You never know what'll happen."

"Relax," Marty said, resisting the urge to sit down on the arm of Doc's armchair, flopping down in the one opposite. "You and Dad didn't raise any idiots, remember?"

"Just daydreamers," Doc volunteered, words mostly lost to the ice in his glass.

"Your mother tells me you're off for some fishing and camping this weekend," said George. "Sounds like an excellent idea. Bring me back a few trout, will you, son?"

"If we catch enough, we'll be glad to," replied Doc, and Marty was grateful for the chance to decompress. "We plan on eating most of what we catch on-site. Less mess that way."

Lorraine talked George into leaving shortly after Marty and Doc had given them a tour of the rest of the house; she'd been most concerned with inspecting the upstairs tile-job. To Marty, tile was just tile, so he snuck into the garage while Doc stayed outside and waved off their guests. He'd snagged lube out of the nightstand drawer in the bedroom while everyone else had been crowded in the bathroom. Now, he stuck it in one of their packed bags with shaky fingers. He was reluctant to push anything, especially after how awful he'd felt about kissing Doc without permission all those months ago, but if there was any truth at all to what the nurse had said—well, _regardless_. He wandered back outside.

Doc turned, shading his eyes against the sunset, approaching Marty with approximately the same look of concern he'd been wearing earlier outside the clinic. Marty collapsed into the hug like he had so many times before, like he'd longed to do earlier, like he always would. Doc kissed his temple, his cheek, his hair. Marty's first instinct was to turn his head, to tilt up his chin, seeking.

"Wanna watch reruns of that stuff you like on PBS?" Marty said against Doc's mouth.

They slept in too late the next morning to even _think_ about taking their time getting out of bed. The shower in the upstairs bathroom was big enough for two, but that didn't mean mishaps like whacking your head off the caddy while somebody was going down on you weren't going to happen. Marty laughed so hard afterward he could scarcely maintain the coordination to wash his hair, so Doc, aggravated, did it for him.

The doorbell rang during their breakfast of formerly frozen waffles; Marty grabbed the spare keys on his way to greet Tiff.

"Hey, good morning," Marty said, holding out the keys. "You look awfully chipper."

"You look like you ran a marathon or something," replied Tiff, smirking, sticking the keys in her pocket. "Hey, _Einie_!" she shouted over Marty's shoulder, and the dog came running. "Are you gonna tell me lots of secrets while your daddies are away? _Are you_?"

"Okay, that's enough," Marty said, hustling her inside. "Doc, one dog-sitter confirmed."

"Help yourself to anything in the fridge," said Doc, coming out of the kitchen, dabbing his mouth with a dish towel. "If you can cook it without burning the place down, it's fair game. Yes, that's a joke. Get your jaw off the floor before Einstein runs off with it."

"Aye aye, Captain," said Tiff, snapping her fingers at Einie so that he'd follow her over to the sofa. She put her canvas-shoed feet up on the coffee table and turned on the television. "Is there anything out in the garage you need help with? I could—"

"The only key that's not on your key-ring is, in fact, a key to the garage," said Marty, yanking the dish towel out of Doc's hand, carrying it back into the kitchen. "Does that answer your question? Good. If that'll be everything, Your Majesty, we're outta here."

"I like a boy who knows his place," Tiff said to Einstein as they left. " _Bye_ , guys!"

They loaded the truck, anxious to hit the road before Tiff could think of a reason to wander outside and chatter at them. She'd padlocked her bike to the gate at the foot of the long driveway and walked up. Marty looked askance at a last-minute addition to Doc's packing—a long, slender tool-case of some kind that looked like it was made of really old leather, _seriously_ falling apart—but didn't remark on it. They were ready.

They decided to bypass Bass Lake and drive the extra hour to Mammoth Pool, which was more off the beaten track, less popular with tourists. Marty wondered as they set up camp if he'd taken growing up this close to the Sierra Nevadas for granted. It _was_ beautiful country, nothing but pine trees and stately granite peaks for miles.  It was nearly four in the afternoon when they finally got down to fishing.

They pulled a load of sunfish, but no trout, so dinner consisted of campfire-charred prickly bastards that were nonetheless worth the effort as long as you had enough of them to parcel out in slices of delicate, bone-riddled flesh. They'd both had enough of s'mores for the time being, so they'd only bothered to bring six ears of corn and some glass-bottled Coke for accompaniment. Marty felt full by the time dusk had begun to fall, even sleepy, but Doc seemed to think it was time to break out the strange tool-case. Marty blinked at it.

"I picked this up at that estate sale Gerald Strickland held a few weeks back when his sister passed," said Doc, offering it to Marty. "I don't know if this is your idea of fun, but almost everything else I've shown you over the years has provided enough distraction to keep you around, so it would be foolish to stop now. Open it. They said it's an antique."

"How _much_ of an antique?" Marty asked, wincing as some of the brittle leather flaked away. He balanced the case in his lap, lifting the lid, studying the object inside. "Hey," he said. "I bet they don't even make them like this anymore. It's a nice telescope."

"Eighteen-eighties, nineties," said Doc, shrugging. "It came with lens damage, but it was nothing I couldn't fix. Gerald seemed to think Edna had bought it because of some historical hearsay attached. I'm not sure how much stock I put in that, but it's striking."

"Oh yeah?" Marty asked, holding the piece up to the sky, staring through into the star-studded distance. "What kind of hearsay? What did you do, buy a haunted telescope?"

"If it went over Clayton Ravine in the fatal accident that gave the landmark its name, then who knows," Doc replied, gingerly taking it out of Marty's hands. "Want to set it up?"

Marty shivered, staring up at the constellation he'd been trying to decipher. "Sure."

Objectively speaking, Doc had a lot of interesting shit to say about stars. Emotionally speaking, Marty wasn't interested in most of it at the moment, because it was getting chilly and the tent with their foam mats and sleeping bags and cozy blankets and stuff in it was _right over there_. Marty derailed Doc with a kiss in the middle of rambling about some constellation-feature called M57 and the dead French guys who'd discovered it.

"You're not even going to let me finish telling you about this?" Doc asked, but he leaned back in for a second kiss, this one slow and indulgently teasing. "Aren't you curious?"

"I'm more interested in making amends for this morning, Doc," said Marty, and won.

Even with a two-room tent, space was somewhat limited. Marty didn't have the patience for undressing slowly tonight anyway. He stripped out of his clothes faster than Doc could get out of his, which meant he could get in on that action and _really_ enjoy it.

The wind picked up, shaking the walls around them. Marty shivered again, momentarily as chilly as he'd felt outside, letting Doc roll him over against the pillows. He knew he could get off like this—with the heat of Doc's skin and his restless mouth and his clever touch and, fuck, the way he _moved_ —but he fumbled in his duffel bag, snagging the bottle he'd stashed there earlier. Doc caught Marty's hand, lube and all, kissing his wrist.

"What do you want me to do?" Doc murmured, as earnest as ever. Jesus, he was _direct_ ; Marty was never going to get over how hot that was. He took the bottle, slicked his fingers, and lifted up a little, giving them both a gentle, squeezing tug. "Like that?"

Marty trembled, closing his eyes. Flashfire down his front, scorching out to his extremities. He licked his lips, finding his mouth dry. "I want you to. _Um_ ," he said unhelpfully, guiding Doc's hand away from where it was doing _great_ work, stretching his fingers along Doc's as he urged them lower. Marty's nerves were kicking in a little, but he adamantly ignored them. "Like this," he managed, till Doc got the gist. "But— _slow_."

Doc's expression clouded for a moment, that same pained worry, but Marty set his jaw stubbornly and won _this_ round, too. Doc used one finger, cautious, rubbing in slow, maddening circles until Marty groaned in frustration, hurrying him. Doc kissed him, soft and reassuring, reaching for the bottle again. More cool slickness, one finger, _two_.  Marty hissed in pain, but he had Doc's wrist in a vise-grip, wouldn't let him back off.

"I just—look, ah, _God_ that hurts like a _bitch_ —want to—see if it actually feels good—if—"

"It doesn't feel good for either of us if I'm causing you pain," said Doc, and made like he meant to wrench his hand free of Marty's grasp, but it drove his touch deeper for a split second, something about the curve of his fingers and, goddamn, _right_ there. Fireworks.

"That, _just_ that," Marty panted; Doc's eyes narrowed in fascination. "Oh my _God_ , Doc. Don't stop that, maybe—faster, _maybe_? It feels like—"

Doc kissed him again, repeating the action with one finger instead of two, finding coordination difficult at this point. "I know what it's supposed to feel like," he sighed, the concern in his features resolving into fond relief. "Marty, I could watch you like this—"

Marty hoped that the rest of that statement was something like _all night_ or _until I come so hard I can't remember my name_ , but he didn't have the chance to suggest either one because he was in serious danger of forgetting _everything_ in light of the blackout-intensity orgasm that was, oh, _imminent_. He clung to Doc, sobbing with it.

 _I don't know if I could take anything more, or if you'd even want it,_ Marty thought, wrapping his shaking limbs around Doc now that he was less concerned with keeping Doc's fingers busy and more concerned with getting him off as soon as possible.

Doc groaned, coaxing shudders from them both, his come slicking Marty's thigh.

"Please don't be afraid to articulate what you want," he whispered. " _Please_. I'd never have forgiven myself if that hadn't gone...the way it did."

" _Shhh_ , Doc," Marty said, nuzzling Doc's cheek. "You're the only person on earth who'd apologize for being fantastic in the sack. I'm just saying."

"That—" Doc paused, kissing Marty the way he did when sleep was looking like a less and less tantalizing option "—is an _excellent_ start."

 

 

**June 28 – 30, 1986**

"Marty, you have so much crap in the attic you'd think Mom was planning a museum exhibit," Linda griped, indignant to be in sweats with her hair pinned back, hauling another dusty cardboard box outside. "I'm glad you guys brought the truck _and_ the van."

"Spending Saturday hauling shit of mine from grade-school out of storage with you is _not_ my idea of a good time either, got it?" said Marty, following Linda outside with a box at least twice as heavy as the one she was carrying. "Who knew I had so many books?"

"You devoured every single novel the school librarians suggested till you were like twelve or thirteen years old," Dave said, strolling out with a box of his own. He came over to the truck and dumped it in beside the ones Marty and Linda had jut placed, brushing off his hands. "How could you just _forget_ about that? You've been forgetting a lot of things lately, now that I think about it. Did you fall on your head in Doc's lab?"

Linda hit Dave on the arm. "That's mean," she said. "Cut it out. Doc's in the kitchen."

Relegating lunch duty to Doc wasn't as terrible a prospect as it had once sounded. Having new kitchen equipment in both the garage and in the house had inspired him, wonder of wonders, to take up cooking. It was never anything fancy, and he had the unfortunate tendency to default to obscure German recipes from his mother's chaotic notebooks. He'd gotten to the point he could do pasta sauces from scratch, though.

Dave coughed, glaring at Marty. "Doc's in the _kitchen_ all right. Does he like it there?"

Marty almost took it for a petty, empty retort, but the look on Linda's face told him all he needed to know about how Dave had intended it. "Wanna run that by me again?"

"Dave, what the _fuck_ ," said Linda. "Like Mom said, if you can't say anything nice—"

"No, I can't fucking _say anything nice_ ," Dave said, wrangling his Jeep keys out of his pocket. "I'm leaving. There are like five more boxes up there. Haul 'em yourself."

"Jesus," Marty said as they watched him back out of the garage. "I didn't know—"

"Yeah," sighed Linda, shading her eyes. "Our big brother's a big _ot_. What else is new?"

 _More than I can_ ever _tell you_ , thought Marty, sadly. "Hey, let's get the rest of my stuff."

"What matters to me is that you're happy," said Linda, shrugging. "My eyebrows hit the ceiling when Mom told us after your party, but Dave just left the room without a word." She elbowed him in the side. "As far as I'm concerned, you're living the dream."

"What's that?" Marty asked, half smiling, the sting of Dave's rejection lessening. "Some rich guy to put a roof over your head and foot all the bills?"

"I work hard for my money, you brat," said Linda, shooing Marty toward the steps. "Maybe one day I'll meet somebody richer than me, or maybe one day _I'll_ be richer and find somebody to spoil. My point is, you got a sweet deal, so don't take it for granted."

Doc came out onto the porch, looking pleased with himself. "Rigatoni's served!"

They ate lunch together, and then finished transferring the remainder of the boxes outside. Both vehicles were full, and that really _was_ the last of it. All told, this was their third ferrying trip in two weeks, so Doc's initial assessment had been accurate. Linda came up alongside the truck, leaning against Marty's rolled-down window.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she said, frustrated. "Mom and I are working on him."

Marty sighed, running his palm along the edge of the steering wheel, glancing back to where Doc was waiting patiently at the wheel of the van. "Dad doesn't know, does he?"

"If Dad doesn't know on some level, then he's slower than I thought," said Linda, rubbing the spot Marty had pulled in his shoulder. "Denial _is_ his superpower, so I'm not sure."

"He and Mom are pretty liberal," said Marty. "Always have been. Surely he isn't..."

"Isn't like Dave?" replied Linda, wearily. "Marty, _nobody's_ like Dave. Be grateful."

"The Tannens are like Dave, only _worse_ ," Marty replied. "Okay, we're outta here."

Linda patted him on the arm and stepped back into the grass, waving as Marty and Doc pulled out into the street. For the entirety of the drive back to Hilldale, all Marty could think about was the wild-card that was his father. Given the fantastical content of all those stories, of his book, of all his books yet _unwritten_ , surely George McFly wasn't of a disposition to disown his youngest for taking up with somebody who fell outside the dominant cultural relationship paradigm. Why wasn't his mother pushing the issue?

Einstein whimpered and ran to greet them when they got home, instantly zeroing in on Marty. Doc stood by quietly for a while, watching Marty settle on the floor to play tug-of-war with Einie using a worn argyle sock, and then went over to the sofa to resume proof-reading the typescript of his latest column. Animals were so fucking unjudgmental that there were times when Marty wished he could fill his life with just Doc and a bunch of dogs and _maybe_ a few cats as insurance (although Doc was deathly allergic).

"I heard what your sister said to you before we left," said Doc, at length, as if he couldn't keep quiet any longer. "My window was down, too, and she wasn't talking quietly."

"It's awful about Dave, Doc," Marty sighed, rubbing Einstein's belly. "I had no clue how my family felt about _any_ of this stuff the first time around, because I'd never had any reason _to_ think about it. I mean, I know about gay people. _Everybody_ knows about gay people. I guess at one point my knee-jerk reaction about it might've been anxiety, but, hey, let me tell you something, fall in love and all bets are _off_."  Einie got bored with the belly-rub and twisted away from Marty, trotting off to examine his water dish. "I don't know if that's what we are, Doc. Are we?"

Doc shrugged reasonably. "We're in a relationship that's classifiable as homosexual, so there's that," he said. "On the flip side, I'm in agreement with Alfred Kinsey's findings about human sexual preferences occurring along a spectrum. I'd say we're both _bi_ sexual before we're anything else." His brows knit. "I should read those studies again."

"You know what else Linda got right, I mean _aside_ from the fact that Dave's being a douche?" Marty asked, levering himself up. He crawled onto the sofa, shifting into Doc's lap, leaning in close.  "You spoil me rotten.  I don't take advantage of that, do I?"

Doc kissed him, soft and thorough.  "Why don't you play those cover songs from the tape for me?  I'll consider it sufficient recompense," he said wryly, turning immediately serious, "and it'll make you feel better.  Einie's fine for what ails you, but music's your _true_ remedy." He stroked Marty's hair, sighing. "I'm the one who's spoiled."

"Then prepare to be spoiled _more_ ," said Marty, rising again. "Rock and roll!"

Marty fetched his guitar from the garage and played a few unplugged sets back-to-back until Doc was done revising his column. They watched more of Doc's nature documentaries over leftover pasta they'd brought back from the McFly house, and then Marty cleared the dishes, hauled in some blankets from one of the guest bedrooms, and popped in the next Clint Eastwood film that Doc insisted he had to see.

They dozed off before it was over, woke up close to nine, and sheepishly remembered that they hadn't unpacked the vehicles, and went out to do _that_ with the second wind they'd caught from their nap. Marty talked Doc into a shower, what with all the dust that would have him sneezing by morning if they weren't careful, and re-did the botched blow job for, like, the third or fourth time since it had happened over a month ago.

Afterward, both of them still damp-haired and panting, Doc laid Marty down on the ridiculously vast mattress and worked him slowly, so much more _thoroughly_ than he'd done at the lake.  Marty was glad they didn't have any _too-_ immediate neighbors. He made so much noise that Doc looked legitimately concerned even right up until he finished.

"So tell me if you, _ah_ ," Marty mumbled, boneless and content, "want me to return the favor sometime." He held Doc's hair back with both hands, lazily distracted by a faint white scar on Doc's left earlobe. "What's that?" he asked, running his thumb across it.

"I don't consider these favors to be repaid, Marty," Doc sighed, curling his hand around Marty's, gently molding Marty's fingertips along the shell of his ear. "That'll be a chicken-pox scar from when I was about nine years old, kind of like the ones you've got across your lower back," he said, letting the fingers of his free hand, trapped beneath Marty, play across them. "Not terribly interesting, I'm afraid. What did you think it was?"

"I thought maybe you had an earring or something during grad school, or maybe when you first started teaching," said Marty, tracing the shell of Doc's ear before shaking off Doc's fingers and threading his own back through Doc's hair. He pulled it back again, tilting his head back against the pillow, giving Doc an appraising look. "You haven't cut it in a while, have you? It's getting long, and I mean longer than usual. You should start pulling it back. That's kinda sexy, maybe even sexier than the shirts."

"And I suppose you'd like me to pierce my ear while I'm at it," said Doc, and whether he was scandalized or flattered, Marty wasn't exactly sure. He shrugged, pulling Marty's hands away from his nape, kissing the backs of them one after the other. "Once upon a time, maybe, just _maybe_ , I used to keep it longer and wear it like that. Call it a mid-to-late-'70s experimental phase. My students seemed to think it suited me well enough."

"You smoked weed with your students, didn't you?" Marty asked, grinning at him.

Doc sighed, settling beside him. "It was a different time," he said. "Nobody thought—"

"Nobody thought the kind of toxic, narrow-minded bullshit people are starting to think about us," Marty muttered, reaching to turn out the light. "Yeah, Doc. I hear you."

"If you ever felt you couldn't continue this," said Doc, quietly, "if you felt _unsafe_ —"

"Shut the hell up," Marty sighed, kissing him with resolve. "I'm staying right here."

Marty slept late the next morning. Dressing-gown clad and yawning, he wandered downstairs to find an apologetic note from Doc on the kitchen table (Doc signed things to him _xox E._ now—perhaps out of habit from intimate, informal family correspondence—and it made Marty's heart clench). The editor Doc worked with in the newspaper office was doing some eleventh-hour layout on the Monday edition, which was when Doc's column ran every week; seeing as tomorrow was, well, _Monday_ , she needed Doc there in a pinch. Marty pinned the note up on the fridge, still as secretly enamored of Doc's old-fashioned handwriting as he'd been the first time he'd seen it, and made some waffles.

The doorbell rang right after he sat down to start cutting a perfectly-toasted stack.

"Hey," Tiff said, beaming as Marty opened the door. "Wow, you're still in PJs."

"That's because it's a quarter till eleven on Sunday," said Marty. "Most people are still in bed." He rolled his eyes. "I made waffles. Want some?"

"Hell _yeah_ I do," replied Tiff, barging inside. She was in jeans and a loud neon tie-dye tank top, although there was a pashmina scarf wrapped around her neck, which Marty found odd (his first thought was that Doc's fashion sense, at least color-wise, was rubbing off). He quietly started to have a crisis of conscience about what might be going on under that scarf (such as: _Would Biff hurt one of his own kids?_ ), but Tiff kicked off her Birkenstocks and unwound the scarf almost proudly. _Ah_ , Marty thought. _False alarm_.

"I stayed over at Connie Li's place," said Tiff, suggestively, already heading for the kitchen.

"I have no idea what your parents think you and Connie are up to, but you need to be careful," said Marty, fetching another plate so that he could shift two of his four waffles onto it for Tiff. "Hickeys are far-out reminders, but you could get in real trouble."

"I fisted an almost-eleventh-grader last night," she said defiantly, "and I'm only just going into ninth. Are you gonna fight me on that, McFly?"

"No," said Marty, trying not to let any shock register in his expression; shit, dykes were fucking _hardcore_. "Connie Li is kinda hot, I won't argue. Nice job. But be careful."

"Dad _would_ kill me," she said, fetching a fork from the silverware drawer, coming back to sit down across from Marty and dig into her waffles. "Mom would shout and swear a lot, but she'd probably just say not to tell Dad. I wonder if they'd send me to one of those places they send kids to try and fix 'em," she mused with her mouth full. "D'you think?"

Marty rubbed his face in disbelief, not that hungry anymore. "Do you love Connie Li?"

Tiff shrugged, but her expression sobered somewhat. "I don't know. It's way too soon."

"Then for fuck's sake, take what might happen to _her_ in consideration, too," Marty said.

"Did you take what might happen to Doc into consideration?" Tiff asked bluntly. "I mean back when you were still technically underage. I thought you were so bad-ass."

"I might've been kinda stupid back when I started this endeavor," Marty sighed. "I'm not proud of how I pressured Doc to take such a huge risk; then again, it was his choice, too, and we..." Marty took another bite, completely stunned by the parameters of this life that he'd in no way, shape, or form even _earned_. "I love him, okay? So I'm careful."

"You weren't so careful that I didn't see what you did in the car," Tiff reminded him.

"Yeah, and I'm lucky it wasn't your dad or my brother who saw instead," Marty agreed.

Tiff tilted her head pityingly at Marty. "That's kinda shit," she said. "Your brother, too?"

"Yeah," Marty sighed, shoving his waffle-remnants at her. "And my dad doesn't know."

"Your dad's a university professor with students who have problems like ours," said Tiff, happily accepting Marty's leftovers. "He knows. He isn't making a big deal about it."

"I hope you're right," Marty said, sitting back and folding his arms. "Why are you here?"

"Why _isn't_ Doc here?" Tiff countered. "He told me to drop by and help him tweak stuff."

Marty pointed at the refrigerator. "Unfortunately, Doc got called down to the newspaper office at the last minute, and I have no clue when he'll be back. Formatting issues."

"You look like you didn't sleep much," said Tiff, knowingly. "Or is something wrong?"

"If there is, it's something wrong with me," Marty admitted, getting up to fetch the orange juice so he'd have a distraction while he said a bunch _more_ shit that he probably had no business dumping on Tiff. "This—this person, they offered me a piece of advice. They said you've gotta change things up with older guys or they're gonna get bored with you."

Tiffany snorted. "Clearly this person doesn't know Doc. He couldn't get bored with you if he tried. All he does is talk about you when you're not around. I want a girl like that."

Marty felt his cheeks heat; he put a glass of juice in front of Tiff and sat back down.

"Maybe you're right," he agreed. "But what if they have a point? Variety's important."

Tiff's eyes lit up with that hero-worship eagerness that still, to this day, gave Marty whiplash. "Can I help you think of ways to spice up your sex life?" she offered.

 _This is the girl who's happily fisting people, and you're not even sure you know what that is_ , Marty reminded himself, covering his eyes. "Sure. What could possibly go wrong."

"Hey, smart-ass," she said, reaching across the table to slap Marty's wrists, tugging his hands away from his eyes. "We've got each other's backs, remember? I'll help you. Just give me a while to think. I don't really know what guys like, but I know this kid at school who's _way_ in the closet like me. He doesn't have a boyfriend, but he knows stuff."

 _Jesus Christ_ , Marty thought, and his stomach growled. "More waffles?" he asked.

Between the two of them, they cleaned out the Eggos and the orange juice. Einstein got away with a handful of pieces, so Marty left the dog in Tiff's care while he went upstairs to shower and get dressed. They took Einstein out for a walk and ran into Doc in the DeLorean on their way back, so they hopped in the car and rode with him to the house. Einstein in the back and Tiff crammed in Marty's lap wasn't ideal, but it reminded him of the trip to 2015 with Jennifer and was more than worth the laugh.

For the rest of the day—or at least until Jo Tannen called around six in the evening asking where the hell her daughter was, could they send her _home_ , please?—Doc let Tiff perform a bunch of minor wiring and soldering operations on his latest project (a remote-control microwave, which Marty thought was a waste of time, but a _fun_ waste of time nonetheless). She was beside herself with elation by the time they sent her packing.

"You're right," Marty said, watching her ride off. "She _is_ a good kid. And what she's got that her old man lacks is a sense of humor. She can also properly employ figures of speech."

"It's good of you to look out for her," Doc said. "She'll need all the help she can get."

 _I have more faith in her ability to help me than in my ability to help her_ , Marty thought.

The next day, they headed into town to pick up copies of the latest newspaper. They were having lunch in Courthouse Café when, of all people, Jennifer came in with Trav _and_ Louis in tow. Doc endured the happy exclamations and hugging with affable humor, although it was clear he just wanted to re-read his column for post-mortem continuity in peace. Marty tapped Doc's ankle under the table with the toe of his sneaker and moved over to the booth his friends had decided to occupy. Jennifer winked at him.

"Hey," she said. "You've been so busy moving nobody's been able to pin you down."

"My cousins _miss_ you, man," said Louis. "They're gonna start looking for a new guitarist if you don't call Emerson _yesterday_. They aren't pissed, but they aren't happy, either."

 _Great_ , Marty thought. _Just when I don't have a time machine anymore_. "I'll give them a call tonight," Marty said. "Sorry I've been out of commission. The move took a while."

"Hey, so that must mean Doc Brown's place is finished now!" said Trav, excitedly.

"As finished as it's going to get until such time as I get sick of it and decide to renovate," said Doc, under his breath, listening in. He put down the newspaper and grinned at Jennifer, who'd turned to give him big, pleading can-we-please-see-it eyes. "Why don't you all come out for a tour once you've finished your lunch? Einie will be _thrilled_."

"Since when does he pull his hair back like that?" Louis asked in a whisper once Doc had gone back to reading. "Kinda goes better with the retro-clothes thing, I gotta admit."

"Since Marty told him it looks cool, I bet," said Jennifer, twirling one of her fries.

"Yeah," replied Marty, picking up the mess that was left of his BLT. "Basically."

Trav must've been mildly stoned to begin with, because, to him, everything about the new Brown Estate was too heavy for words. Jennifer liked the upstairs layout best, poking into every room she came across. Louis stuck close to Marty's side, less inclined to wander off. Marty paused with him in the doorway of the master bedroom; they were, at least momentarily, alone.

"I mean no disrespect," said Louis, in a low voice, "but is he your sugar daddy or something?  I don't mean in the gross way. This place is _legit_."

"I wasn't in it for the money, that's for sure; he was all but broke when we got together last year," said Marty, straightening the wrecked comforter. "Call it lucky investing."

"But what I mean is," continued Louis, "you're _with him_ with him, right? Because I think if my cousins knew that, they'd be a lot more forgiving. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"Oh," Marty said. " _Oh_. Right. Um, listen—thanks. Not everyone's so cool about it."

"Is your family giving you shit?" asked Louis, hesitantly. "If they are, that isn't right."

"Only my brother," Marty told him. "Mom and Linda are the greatest. As for Dad—"

"I sense your father isn't one to talk much about feelings, but he's a really solid dude."

"Yeah," Marty sighed, leading Louis back through the hall and down the stairs. "He is."

He and Doc saw everybody off around four o'clock. They fetched the mail while they were down at the foot of the hill, and Marty paused in his cursory shuffle-through when he recognized the name of the clinic on two envelopes in a row. He waved them at Doc.

Even though a clean bill of health on all fronts was what they'd been expecting, it was still plenty of cause for celebration. They opened the bottle of champagne Lorraine had sent over with a flower arrangement several weeks back to mark the house's completion.

"This was a terrible idea," muttered Doc, sprawled on the sofa, only two glasses down.

"I told you one glass would be enough," Marty sighed, sitting on the floor with his back against the edge of the cushion on which Doc's upper body rested. "Now I'm gonna have to take care of you and your headache for like the next twenty-four hours."

"Stick me in the bedroom and forget about me," Doc groaned, pulling one of the pillows over his head. "With any luck, I'll sleep it off."

Marty got up and sat on the edge of the cushion, tugging the pillow off Doc's face.

"Hey," he said, rubbing Doc's temples. "How does it go—in sickness and in health?"

 

 

**July 24 – 26, 1986**

"Happy Birthday, Ma," Marty said, kissing his mother on the cheek, handing her the electric kettle that Doc had expertly wrapped (Marty couldn't wrap gifts to save his _life_ ). He felt kind of like a man with a death wish, walking into a family dinner where his current nemesis, Dave, was going to be the only person without a romantic partner present. Lorraine had insisted that Linda bring Craig and that Marty bring Doc.

"Lorraine," said Doc, embracing her warmly, handing her the card that accompanied their gift as he followed Marty inside. He shrugged out of his blazer, hanging it on one of the hooks along the wall, and then removed his hat. Doc inhabited Marty's space now with as much comfort as Marty inhabited his. "Wonderful to see you, as always."

Marty stuck his hands in his pockets, wondering if Lorraine was even going to notice that they'd both dressed in extreme-throwback mode. She'd seen them dressed like this, or at least approximately so, before. But it would be in her best interest not to remember. Doc had held onto the button-down shirts and trousers Marty had worn around his first week-long jaunt in 1955, perhaps out of some misplaced sentimentality.

"You look so _handsome_ , Emmett," she told him, reaching to skim her fingers along his pulled-back hair. "The style suits you. I haven't seen you wear it like that in _years_."

"What can I say," said Doc, shrugging. "A few missed trips to the barber decided for me." He bowed slightly and took her hand, squeezing it. "You look lovely yourself."

"You boys go on through," said Lorraine. "Linda and Craig are already here, and they've opened the wine. We're just waiting on Dave, is all."

"Where's Dad?" Marty asked, leading Doc into the dining room. "Is he cooking?"

"Out back," said Linda, fussing with her curls. "He loves that grill more than Mom."

"Hi," said Marty, offering his hand to the young man—tall, slightly darker-skinned, and _extremely_ handsome—who, seated beside her, rose as she got up to greet Doc with a handshake. "You must be the Craig I've heard so much about. Great to meet you."

"It's wonderful to meet you as well," he said, eager to make an impression, enthusiastically shaking Marty's hand. "Craig Castillo. I've heard so much about you and Doctor Brown." He let go of Marty's hand, and then shook Doc's. "It's an honor."

"Don't forget the _Esquire_ part," said Linda, giving Craig a scolding look, shifting her gaze back to Marty almost immediately. "He's a lawyer. He might be making partner soon."

"You did good," said Marty, as Craig and Doc resumed their seats and started to discuss something that sounded an awful lot like it had to do with zoning laws. He collected empty wine-glasses from around the table—his, Doc's, his mother's, and George's—and filled them with the Beaujolais in which Linda and Craig had already made a dent.

In the kitchen, the phone rang, and Lorraine, busy stirring a side dish, answered it.

"McFly residence," she said. "Yes, hello? Oh, Dave! Where are you? We're all here, waiting. Your father's still out back finishing the ribs, so you've got about ten minutes. Wait, you— _what_ did you say to me, young man?" Reflexively, Marty halted in his tracks when he heard her gasp; even just one side of the conversation was making him uneasy. " _David_! I had you check this against your office calendar _months_ in advance. What do you mean they need you to work _overtime_?" Marty peered into the kitchen, finding her leaning against the wall in tears. "Fine. No, you just stop. I know what this is about, and I _won't_ stand for it.  If you're going to behave like that, then you can have your damn overtime," she snapped, hanging up.

"Mom," said Marty, over enunciating, edging cautiously into the kitchen. "I know what this is. Can I..." He held out his arms, uncertain, but Lorraine closed her eyes and waved one hand at him as if to say _Just give me a minute_. Marty stared at the floor, shoving his hands back in his pockets.

Lorraine sighed, reached for a napkin, and blew her nose.  "Take your father some wine, Marty," she said. "He's been working so hard. We're going to eat without your brother, and we're all going to have a very nice time together."

Marty nodded, smiling at her, but it hurt. "Yeah, Ma. I'll take him some. We will."

"Before you do that, help me carry these green beans and the au gratin over to the table," said Lorraine, so Marty did as he was told and grabbed the casserole dish of potatoes out of the oven after she made off with the pot she'd been stirring (the beans, presumably).

Doc looked up when Marty entered the room, concerned. "Can I help in any way?"

"Not unless you've got some gadget that can cure terminal dickishness," said Linda, glumly. "I'm sorry, Mom. I should've known he'd pull a stunt like this. What a jerk."

Craig stared at his hands, clearly at a loss. "Life with siblings is difficult," he said.

"Nah," Marty said, coming around to Doc's side of the table to set the au gratin down on top of the potholder nearest to him. "Dave's being Dave, what can you do." He picked up the glass he'd filled for his father, grabbing his own as an afterthought. "I'm gonna take this out to Dad and see if he needs help bringing in the main course."

George was in the midst of prodding two remaining portions of barbecued ribs with a pair of tongs when Marty stepped up beside him, offering one of the glasses without a word. Lorraine's _LEAVE THE COOK ALONE_ apron suited him somehow, and Marty grinned as his father took a drink and made a face. Not the biggest fan of red wine.

"Never let your mother pick the grape," he sighed. "She can't tell vinegar from art."

Marty studied the two heaping foil-covered serving dishes, pretty sure there was no way in hell the six of them were going to be able to finish all of it. _More leftovers for Tiff_ , Marty thought, _assuming Mom sends some of it back with me and Doc_. "Do you need any help carrying this inside? Should I take one plate in while you wrap up?"

"That would be great, son," said George, setting down the tongs, placing one hand on Marty's shoulder while he drank again. "I heard raised voices. What was that about?"

"That was Mom," said Marty, deciding his father had the right idea, downing his glass. "On the phone with Dave. He called to say he's working late and won't be joining us."

For one shocking instant, George looked so angry he might shatter the glass against the grill, but he took a deep breath and set it down next to the serving dishes. "I want you to know," he said carefully, meeting Marty's gaze with the hesitant intensity of his younger self, "that I don't agree with the way your brother is reacting. You're a grown man, and you can make your own decisions. Furthermore, I couldn't be more proud of you for leading by example. You should never have to compromise who you are just because other people find it inconvenient." He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and Marty was already squeezing George's wrist so tightly he was probably cutting off circulation. "I won't pretend I wasn't shocked when your mother told me. Just like her, I was worried at first. I didn't want anything to happen to either one of you." George's lips quirked a little, and Marty felt a rush of relief. "It isn't easy for me to talk about this, son, because I grew up in time when few people had anything good to say about people who broke that particular mold. But I can say from the bottom of my heart that Doc Brown is always, _always_ welcome at my table. The future will be better whether Dave likes it or not."

"Jesus, Dad," Marty said, staring hard at the grass. "The future is _already_ better."

George gave a firm nod, clapped Marty on the shoulder, and gestured at the finished ribs. "Get one of those inside. I won't be a minute or two behind you. Linda's starving."

Even with the tension surrounding Dave's absence, dinner was more enjoyable than Marty had expected it would be. Lorraine and George were both treading carefully with regard to the questions they were asking of him and of Linda. Craig and Doc kept interrupting with bouts of legalese every time one or the other thought of something to add to their earlier exchange; Linda and Lorraine coped by blowing through several more glasses of wine each. George kept flashing Marty that gleeful fanboy smile, like he couldn't believe Emmett Brown was breaking bread with them again.

When Doc reached for the wine, seeking a second glass, Marty caught his wrist.

"We're _not_ doing the headache thing again for a while, Doc," he said warningly.

Doc made his best facsimile of a confused, innocent face. "It wasn't _that_ bad."

Linda started laughing mid-chew on a bite of cheesecake and had to cover her mouth with a napkin. Craig touched her shoulder, concerned, oblivious to the humor of the situation. Doc abandoned his quest for another drink, digging back into his dessert.

Ten o'clock came and went, which meant that, in spite of the temptation of Lorraine's excellent coffee, they really ought to be getting back to Einstein. They stuck around for another twenty minutes at George's insistence so that they could watch Lorraine open her gifts. She was thrilled with the kettle ("Like they had in England when we were there for your semester abroad, George!"), but Marty couldn't help but think the perfume Linda and Craig had bought her would ultimately see more use. She offered everyone a sniff.

The diamond-studded teardrop earrings from George, it had to be said, trumped _all_.

" _George_!" she scolded, stripping her lobes of the gold hoops she'd been wearing so she could don the new pieces. "These are too much!"

"Not with the advance they're offering for a sequel," he said, admiring the effect.

At that statement, which was the first _any_ of them had heard of this news, Lorraine threw her arms around George with a shriek. Marty kept his distance, opting to join Doc in soundless applause, because the sofa had gotten awfully crowded with Linda having jumped in to hug George at the same time. Craig grinned, finding their joy infectious.

"Let's get outta here, Doc," Marty laughed under his breath. "They're just nauseating."

The tangle on the sofa meant that they could bow out, waving, without having to actually hug anyone. They'd taken the truck at Marty's insistence that it needed to get out more, that it might get jealous if they kept favoring the DeLorean. Doc had looked at him askance, but had said nothing. He flipped radio stations while Marty drove them home.

"Hey," said Marty, yawning, once Doc had turned out the light and joined him in bed. "Are you still driving to Santa Clara tomorrow to get those parts you needed for, ah, something or other?" He nuzzled his way to the where his pillow tapered off and Doc's started, blinking to acclimate to the darkness, managing to plant a kiss on Doc's chin instead of his mouth. "It's just, Tiff's coming over to play with Einie. I swear she's better friends with that dog than with anyone. So I know how long to keep her occupied."

Doc held Marty still, returning the gesture properly. "I'll head out around eleven, eleven-thirty," he said, "and I'll aim to be back by around four or five. Is that all right with you?"

"Yeah," said Marty, too sleepy to have to worry about sounding evasive. "Perfect."

Doc woke him from a sound sleep around eleven forty-five the next morning with a deliciously kiss-muddled _I'll see you later_ and the promise that he'd bring back something Marty liked for dinner. Marty dozed for anther half an hour or so after Doc left, and then forced himself to get up for a shower. He upped his usual temperature ante from fucking hot to _scorching_ , taking a lot of extra time to scrub himself down. Linda's exfoliating sludge might've come in handy given Tiff's diabolical plan, but there was nothing for it.

"Aw, _man_ ," she said when Marty answered the door and let her in just before two o'clock. "Your hair's a disaster; it's dried all funny! _Why_ didn't you let me hunt down a wig?"

"Because your first spice-things-up idea is _just_ this side of half-baked," said Marty. "I'm curious enough to give it a try, but I draw the line at anything beyond the clothes."

"Seriously?" said Tiff, rummaging in the massive denim shoulder bag she was carrying until she located a clear toiletries case containing an assortment of make-up tubes and compacts. "Not even a little something on your face? You've got better skin than _me_."

Marty stared at her, hating the fact that _she_ did better puppy-dog eyes than Einstein.

"I can't believe this," he sighed, taking the case out of her hand. "Fine. _Only_ a little."

"Dress-up and role-playing are tame shit," said Tiff, heading for the stairs. "You're not gonna be shy about letting me see you in your purple undies, are you? Because I've seen you in, like, one of those ratty old robes of Doc's, and don't try to deny you _weren't_ wearing anything else. Wow," she continued, glancing back at Marty as he followed, "you look traumatized. I know about your purple underwear because you left 'em in the bathroom the other day. I ruled out Doc as the owner. We're bros, okay? It's cool."

"I must be out of my fucking mind," Marty said, trailing after her into the bedroom.

"The stuff I've got in here," Tiff explained, emptying it on the hastily tugged-up comforter, "some of it's mine, and some of it's my mom's. Aerobics accessories, a couple of pairs of leggings, a few skirts and tops." She sorted through and started laying out pieces for Marty to inspect. "You're about my height exactly, and my mom's just slightly taller than both of us. I'm skinnier than both of you, but this stuff stretches." She looked Marty up and down, tugging on one of his belt-loops. "Get out of those jeans. Leggings will be better than pantyhose or tights. Here, these black ones."

To be fair, it wasn't much different from wearing a pair of thermal underwear or something. Less itchy, for one thing, and the fabric had a lot of give. Marty felt vaguely ridiculous standing there in a pair of black leggings and his favorite black-and-white checked shirt, but Tiff was so disinterested in him as anything more than a mannequin that the experience quickly lost its awkward edge. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor, perfectly fine with his red undershirt being on display.

"The skirt's gonna be hard," she said, "and I didn't bring very many." She tossed a black acid-wash denim one at him; he shimmied into it and couldn't get the fly zipped or the button fastened because his hips were just slightly too wide. Tiff tossed it back in the bag disgustedly once he'd taken it off. "Man, I had high hopes for that one. Back to the drawing board." She held up a knee-length teal number with an elastic waist and buttons down the front; although it fit, they both had to admit the effect was frumpy.

"Let's face it," Marty said, making a face at his reflection in the full-length mirror, "I'd make a sorry excuse for a drag queen. I'm way too short, and heels? Forget _that_."

"Oh, I didn't even _think_ about shoes," Tiff lamented. "There's no way I was gonna find shoes of mine or my mom's to fit you. You'll just have to be charmingly barefoot. It's summer, so you can get away with that breezy kind of deal." She held up the two remaining skirts, her expression pained. "These are both shorter, like, just above the knee to mid-thigh, and the waistbands shouldn't be an issue, _but_..." She waited till Marty had got out of the teal one and then held the sapphire blue one up to him experimentally. "You know what? Patterns are your thing. Let's do the floral," she said, throwing the sapphire and teal back on the bed one after the other. She handed him the floral.

While Marty put it on, muttering about how _of course_ it was the shortest, Tiff tapped him on the shoulder and held out another black something-or-other. It looked kind of like a tank-top, maybe a suggested substitute for his undershirt. Skirt more or less in place, Marty stripped out of the only thing left on his person (besides his underwear, thank you _very_ much) that was still an article of his own clothing and put on the tank.

"I'm afraid to turn around and check the mirror," he said, spreading his arms wide. "Is this situation getting better, or am I doomed to look like a _Punky Brewster_ reject?"

"Tuck in the tank top," Tiff instructed, patiently waiting till he'd done so. " _Huh_ ," she said, pulling the face that Marty had come to associate with her understated brand of pleasant surprise. "It's a pity we _don't_ have any heels. You've got nice legs."

 _Aha_ , Marty thought. _The closer I get to looking like a girl, the more objectifying this is going to get_. He turned to face his reflection and stared, surprised to find that he agreed with Tiff's assessment of what the skirt did to highlight his, well, lower half. "We've gotta do something else up here," he said, picking at the tank top. "I feel kinda exposed."

"You get naked for this guy on a regular basis," said Tiff, deadpan, "and you feel _exposed_?" She shrugged, turning back to consider the rest of the shirts. "I brought a couple of short-sleeved buttony things, but I don't like... _hmmm_..." Marty folded his arms and shifted from foot to foot while she examined and rejected four pieces in a row. "Let's go for broke! This is the most femme-y thing in here. Mom bought it because she wanted me to wear it to the spring choir concert. Gross. I hid it at the back of my closet and forgot about it." The article in question was a white, sheer, long-sleeved blouse with a darted front. "This is gonna be good," she said, undoing the buttons, handing the garment off to Marty. "I've got a hunch."

Well, _shit_. The sleeves downplayed his arms to the point that Marty could understand why Tiff was starting to regard him with that weird, who-is-this-person-I'm-seeing light in her eyes. She stepped forward and buttoned his wrist-cuffs, her grin widening.

"This is going places I didn't think it would," Marty said. "Suggestions, style-guru?"

"Tuck it in," said Tiff, whirling back over to the bed. "Blouse it a little," she added, fishing something out of the bag that Marty hadn't seen her remove on the first pass. She held a wide black belt out at arm's length, urgently shaking it at him. "Put this on."

"Jesus Christ," Marty said, cinching the belt as tight as he could stand to have it go.

"You could be your twin sister," said Tiff. "You're prettier than your _actual_ sister."

Marty high-fived her, feeling strangely accomplished. "Don't tell Linda about this."

"I don't think you _need_ a wig," Tiff said thoughtfully. "The haircut looks a kinda butch, but, whatever, it works under the circumstances. You look _cute_. Doc's gonna flip."

"Nah, he's gonna go all squinty and then ask me if Halloween's come early," Marty sighed. "Or he'll ask me if you're going for a fashion-show badge in Girl Scouts and couldn't find anyone else to model." Marty studied himself again. "That is _scary_."

"Have fun with it," said Tiff, shrugging. "It's not every day you get to be not-quite-yourself, or maybe I should say part-of-yourself-you-didn't-know-was-there."

"Are you still determined to get me in some make-up?" Marty asked. "You'd better do it before I change my mind. It could take some trial and error, and Doc might be back as soon as four o'clock. If I recall, the idea is for you to be outta here before that happens."

"Then we've got just over an hour, sweet-cheeks," replied Tiff, fetching the cosmetics, "so sit your girly butt down and let me see what I can do. I'm in Drama Club, relax."

Eyeshadow first, applied and blended directly with Tiff's careful, narrow fingertips. Marty looked at the color once he'd opened his eyes: eggshell white, what was up with _that_ , wasn't it bland? He asked Tiff what the deal was while she applied mascara.

"Trust me," she said. "That's what you do to make baby-blues like yours really _pop_." She sat back on her heels and blinked up at him. "I'm not gonna let you see this till I'm completely finished," she said, closing the mascara, tossing it aside. "See that dark blue lipstick tube right next to you on the mattress? Gimme that." Marty handed it to her, watching with trepidation as she uncapped it and considered the shade. It _looked_ really dark, mauve or rose or something Linda would have a pretentious name for. "The Q-Tips are in that little plastic thing. Yeah, that. Hand me one." Again, Marty did as he was told, and he watched her use one end of the Q-Tip to rub away the top layer of color in order to get down to some that hadn't been in contact with her mom's mouth. "Okay," she said, getting the clean end of the Q-Tip well and truly covered. "It's showtime."

The stuff felt funny going on, made Marty feel like his lips had gone dry under the oily layer of color. It wasn't like Chapstick at _all_. Tiff touched up the corners of his mouth critically and then told him to purse his lips, no, not _that_ much. She dashed out to the bathroom and came back with a few squares of toilet paper, using them to dab and shape.

"I dialed it back a bit," she said. "Wiped off most of it, if you will. Left enough of it to give you a bit of tint. Marty, this is some _serious_ shit."

Once Tiff had got to her feet and stepped aside, busying herself with putting away the make-up, Marty rose and approached the mirror again, feeling as if his reflection came slowly into focus this time. He recognized himself, yeah, but only just _barely_.

"Yeah, I'll say," he breathed, touching his lips. "Add a wig and there'd be no _me_ left."

"I'll never look like that," said Tiff, sounding relieved. "I'll never _want_ to look like that."

"Uh, thanks for this," said Marty, awkwardly, turning to look her in the eyes. She'd packed everything up as quickly as she'd unpacked it, had the bag already slung over her shoulder. "This is, listen, this isn't the kind of thing I'd ever..." He put his hands on his hips and breathed out; straightening his posture, determined not to screw up the awesome thing his friend was trying to do for him, he grinned at her. "This isn't the kind of thing I'd have _ever_ done if you hadn't talked me into broadening my horizons, so thanks."

Tiff snorted, covering her mouth. " _Broad_ ening your horizons," she said. "Yeah."

"God, am I glad you're smart enough to make puns," said Marty, and hugged her.

Tiff left without any protest, but she made him swear that he'd report back as many of the results as he felt comfortable sharing. Alone again except for Einstein (who'd trotted up the stairs periodically and stuck his head in the bedroom while they'd been getting Marty dressed), Marty nervously paced the living room, _glad_ he was barefoot instead of wearing heels. He'd have broken his neck trying to cross the carpet, let alone coming down the stairs. He paused between the sofa and the coffee table, brushing off Einie's hopeful pawing at his calf. He couldn't afford to—

"Is this some kind of summer Home Economics assignment that Tiff needed help with?" asked a low voice, startling Marty out of his reverie.  He hadn't locked the door after Tiff's departure, so of _course_ he wouldn't have noticed, as jittery and unquiet-minded as he felt, that Doc had managed to enter without a sound.

" _Ah_ , no," said Marty, straightening up, brushing the dog-hair off his hands. "No, nothing like that, this is..." He started forward, mindful of the corner of the coffee table, but Doc was already approaching with his brows knit in concerned fascination. "This is for you."

"Well, this is for _you_ ," said Doc, proffering the take-out bag he'd brought from, fuck, from somewhere, Marty didn't _know_ where. Doc's fascination was wavering between worry and desire and oh-God-what-memo-did-I-miss. Fascination seemed to be winning, because he reluctantly dropped the bag on the table and let Marty press up against him.

"I'm not hungry just yet, Doc," Marty whispered, tilting his hips forward, kissing him.

What followed was tense and frantic and _completely_ unexpected. Doc let Marty back him down on the sofa without so much as an ounce of protest, pressing both hands firmly along the contour of the belt at Marty's hips, pushing up against Marty the second he settled in Doc's lap. The kiss tasted different because of the lipstick, and they were also kissing just plain _differently_ because of it. Doc dipped his index and middle fingers beneath the belt, tugging, and Marty gasped into his mouth. Women's clothes were constricting, _troublesome_ , and if he thought that about them _now_ , then he couldn't imagine being trussed in the ones he'd seen his mom wear in 1955.

There was an odd suspense to the unbuckling, the blouse-unbuttoning, the tug-down of his leggings.

"Please don't think you ever have to—to do _anything_ like this on my account," whispered Doc, rucking up Marty's skirt as he tugged him close now that Marty's underwear and leggings were gone. "I don't have any preconceived notions, I don't expect— _Marty_." God, but it was a turn-on somehow with the unfamiliar textures of fabric against their skin; Marty fumbled Doc's trousers open, hitched his knees in tight against Doc's hipbones, _gasped_ at the way Doc jerked under him. "I don't expect anything other than—than what _interests_ you or makes you feel confident _or_ —"

"Listen, I had _no idea_ what was gonna happen here, okay?" Marty panted, catching Doc's earlobe between his teeth. "I'm not sure I'd go to all this trouble again, but it's weird and you're surprised and _fuck_ that's what's so hot about it, Doc, the _look_ on your face."

"You're going to keep me enthralled for the rest of my life," said Doc. "Aren't you?"

Marty couldn't imagine a lover his own age being so patient, being self-confident enough not to constantly fear Marty might lose interest or run off with the next best offer to come his way.  Or, for that matter, putting up with experimentation that involved Marty wearing Jo Tannen's lipstick and Tiff Tannen's summer dress-clothes. This was _wild_.

"I know you think you're lucky to have me, Doc," sighed Marty, and then lowered his voice before he lost his nerve. "But the truth is that I'm even _luckier_ to have you."

The end result was that Marty was going to have to do Tiff's laundry, but whatever. Afterward, they cleaned up and re-dressed in anything that wasn't in _too_ rough a shape and fetched plates from the kitchen so they could eat Doc's take-out in front of the TV.

The next day while they were in town running errands (picking up kitchen-cleaning supplies, delivering Doc's column for proofing, buying stamps), Marty waylaid them with his craving for nachos at Courthouse Café. Which might not have been the worst idea, sitting at the bar and chatting with the waitress like they were, except somebody tapped Marty on the shoulder just _so_ —and nearly gave him a heart attack.

"Hey, uh, Marty?" said Biff, withdrawing his hand as if Marty had burned him. "Do you think you could, _well_ —d'you think you could step outside for a second? I have a few questions to ask you about, oh, you know. That thing I'm doing for your dad."

Doc side-eyed the exchange, fixing Marty with an acutely alarmed expression.

"Hey, hey, yeah," said Marty, sliding off his stool, patting Doc on the arm. "I won't be a minute." He gave Doc a reassuring look and followed Biff outside, wondering why he felt so fucking _scared_ all of a sudden. This wasn't the old Biff, the _confrontational_ Biff, but there was something in the edge to Biff's voice that didn't sit right. Biff held the door for Marty, so Marty walked ahead of him, staring at the sidewalk. He wanted to run.

"Listen, it's about my kid," Biff said, spreading his hands in supplication. "You know my daughter? Tiff?" His features hardened, and for one dreadful instant Marty wondered if he'd been dreaming all along, if this was some too-good-to-be-true rogue timeline that was about to fall apart on him. "Of course you do. She adores you. _Idolizes_ you. In her book, the only person who can hold a lantern is Doc Brown in there."

 _Hold a candle_ , Marty thought, his hands shaking. _You hopeless, misguided prick._

"So where is this going, exactly?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level. "I don't—"

"I need you to tell her she needs to fucking _get a life_ ," said Biff, raising his voice in desperation. "She'll take it from you, McFly, and _only_ from you. Christ knows what I did to deserve some stubborn, punk-ass tomboy who won't listen to her mother about—"

"Whoa, _whoa_ ," said Marty, holding up both hands. "Easy, Biff. If you would just let her be—" _herself_ , he wants to say, but knows that he can't "—uh, you know, _happy_ —"

"What do you mean by that?" Biff demanded, and Marty could almost hear the unspoken _butthead_ dangling from the end of Biff's question. "You think my kid is miserable?"

"What I mean to say is," Marty sighed, glancing nervously through the diner window, aware that Doc had risen from his seat and was now watching with fierce concentration, "I think it's wonderful that you and your wife let her do what she loves, but maybe if you didn't...I don't know, maybe if you didn't get on her _case_ about it sometimes..." He made a helpless gesture, letting his hands drop at his sides. "She's a great kid. She's _fine_."

"If there's some kind of problem here, Tannen," said Doc, marching outside with a hard-eyed fury that Marty had only seen in him on the rarest of occasions, "you'll take it up with me instead. Marty can't be held accountable for his father's business practices, but I've met the family lawyer and even engaged his services in one of my own projects."

Biff backed down immediately. "Oh, hey! _Nnn_ —no, there's no trouble at all, Doctor Brown! None whatsoever," he added hastily, patting Marty on the shoulder. "All I needed was some clarification about the tune-up on Dave's Jeep. Nice car," he said, saluting Marty, taking his first few steps away from them backwards. "See ya 'round!"

"My knight in obnoxious armor," said Marty under his breath, grinning at Doc.

Doc put an arm around him, leading him back inside. "It can't have been about Dave's car, can it?" he sighed.  "Dave isn't speaking to you."

"Biff doesn't know that, I guess," Marty sighed, turning into Doc's embrace, not giving a shit that the waitress was right there. "Oh _well_."

 

 

**August 1 – 3, 1986**

Still more or less asleep, Marty wriggled closer to Doc and squeezed his eyes shut against the light filtering in through the curtains. It was a fucking Friday, and even though there wasn't _that_ much different in his world now between Friday and any other day of the week, Friday was the start of the weekend and therefore _not_ for being a morning person.

"Marty," Doc whispered, prodding his side. "I've realized something." When prodding failed to elicit a response, he kissed Marty's shoulder. "Do you know what day it is?"

"It's _Friday_ , Doc," Marty groaned, aimlessly mussing Doc's hair. "Lemme sleep."

"Twenty-four years ago to the day," Doc murmured, "my old place burned down."

Marty's eyes flew open against his better judgment, because, _yeah_ , heavy shit. His first thought was that maybe Doc was sad about it, what with the new place just having been completed. He rolled back far enough to look Doc in the eyes, searching them for signs of distress, instead finding Doc heavy-lidded and thoughtful. Kisses never hurt.

"Hey, so I was thinking," Marty whispered once they paused for breath, "maybe we should celebrate." He worked one thigh up between Doc's; to be fair, Doc didn't at that particular moment _need_ much by way of convincing. _What if it's time to stop beating around the bush?_ he wondered, stilling for a moment, and Doc went on kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his neck, all the while kneading between Marty's shoulder blades, at the small of his back, his ass. _Ah_ , he thought, swallowing hard. _Yeah, maybe time_. "You could—Doc, _look_. It's been long enough."

Doc froze mid-grope, gathering Marty to him with more tenderness than lust, and that was all it took to make Marty to feel completely, _irrevocably_ stupid for having thought that some asshole medical practitioner knew _anything_ about what he and Doc had.

"Please don't think I love you any less just because I'm in no hurry to tick off every box in society's laundry-list of what _they_ expect us to be doing," he murmured. " _Please_."

"Fuck, Doc," Marty hissed, trying to pull away, but Doc wouldn't let him. "I'm the biggest fucking moron ever to—just, _fuck_." He beat one fist against the pillow and blinked tearily against Doc's shoulder. "I'm not ready, either, and I don't know what the fuck else I want, I mean aside from what we've got, which is _great_ , Doc. I just—"

"We're not going back to that clinic next time," said Doc, stroking his hair. "We'll get your college insurance settled and find another place."

"Is it messed up that I still wanna fuck you right now?" asked Marty, squeezing Doc as hard as he dared. "As in, I'm relieved that fucking is more complicated than just one narrow definition, and I swear the way we roll so far is _everything_ I could ask for."

"Whatever you want, whenever you want," Doc promised. "I'm yours to command."

So if that morning was the closest they were ever going to get to scorching hot make-up sex, then Marty was totally down with it. Marty opened Doc slowly, punctuating the slip and press of his fingers with open-mouthed kisses against Doc's nipples, his belly, his cock. Sucking him and applying internal pressure had the best result Marty had _ever_ seen, and he wouldn't have gotten the visual if he hadn't been in the mood to pull off.

Doc tried to reciprocate, but he looked so wrecked that Marty just pushed at Doc's shoulders to keep him propped against the pillows and watching while Marty jerked off. Doc stroked Marty's shoulders, his elbows, his hips. Whispered breathless encouragement, told Marty he was beautiful, _stunning_. Held him when the moment came: the exhilarating shock of it, cliff-drop intensity grounded by Doc's sure arms.

"How's that for celebration, Future Boy?" Doc asked; Marty laughed and _laughed_.

Of course, it had been Marty's sacred duty to get back at him by saying that maybe they should have a celebration that was, you know, significantly less X-rated and in which their friends and family could also take part. Doc had given him a perplexed look, to which Marty had simply caved in and said, _That means we should have a house-warming party with no advance planning! Let's just call up a bunch of people today and tell them to show up here tomorrow. It'll be a day late, but it'll be better than nothing, right?_

Which was how they'd got to where they were now—Saturday, August 2nd, no time-circuit-and-flux-capacitor-equipped DeLorean needed—with Marty's parents and sister and Craig proudly giving various Wilsons impromptu tours around the house while Einstein trotted from person to person in hopes of scoring just as much food as he'd scored at Marty's shindig in June. Tiff was there, too, trying her hand at some tough-love training. Every time she caught Einie begging someone for food, she spritzed him.

Marty peeled away from putting together some more plates of cheese and crackers and random fruit in the kitchen when the doorbell started to ring and it was clear Doc was too busy elsewhere to answer. He opened the door to find he recognized the person ringing it even though they weren't expecting any more guests. The perp tucked her black hair behind her ear, giving Marty a sheepish look.

"You're Connie, aren't you?" Marty asked. "I recognize you from school. Hey, _Tiff_!"

"This is freaky," Jennifer said, coming to stand beside Marty while they watched Tiff and Connie all but collide with each other in the middle of Doc's living room. "For a skinny nerd, Tiff has sure got some moves." She ribbed Marty. "They're better than yours."

"Guess things aren't going so hot for you and Trav, are they?" Marty asked. "I heard—"

"He's too much of a stoner, Marty," sighed Jennifer. "I leave for Smith in a month."

"You had a great time, though," replied Marty, and meant it. "There's that, at least?"

"Between you and him, yeah," Jennifer told him, winking. "I don't regret a thing."

 _Thank God_ , Marty thought, watching Tiff beckon Connie upstairs. _Neither do I_.

Shooing everyone out of the house around midnight was easier said than done, not least because George, beer-emboldened, had assembled a scouting party consisting of Louis, his cousins, and Craig, and had snuck them out to the garage. Lorraine shouted at George the whole way to the car, and she only paused to kiss Marty good-night and tell him she'd fetched the mail for them on her way in and left it on the mantel.

"Thanks, Ma," said Marty, yawning. "We appreciate it. I think you should drive."

"I think you're right," Lorraine replied, manhandling George into the passenger seat.

"Okay, so," Marty said to Doc. "That's everyone _but_ Tiff and Connie, and I have the feeling this is gonna be awkward."

They went back inside, and Doc waited on the sofa while Marty dashed upstairs. The darkened hall and shadowy rooms were eerily quiet, although there was light filtering out from under the closed door of the guest-room at the end of the hall. Marty knocked, clearing his throat, and nothing happened. He couldn't hear anything. _I'm going to hell,_ he thought, turning the doorknob, _or I'll be scarred or life_.

On the bed, Connie was asleep with her head in Tiff's lap. Tiff was flipping through one of Doc's engineering books, playing with Connie's hair.

"Oh, _hey_ ," she whispered, glancing up when she noticed Marty peering in. "S'up?"

"Unless your parents _and_ her parents know where you are," said Marty, tapping his wrist. "You can't stay here. I'm pretty sure your parents know you came for the party, but Connie just kind of... _appeared_. Please just ask Doc next time, okay?"

"Connie's parents are practically hippies," said Tiff. "They don't care."

"Well, that doesn't mean _shit_ in this house," said Marty, suddenly angry. "I care, okay? So does Doc." He stepped over to the bed and carefully prodded Connie's shoulder; that girl slept like the _dead_. "Hey, party's over," he said softly. "I'm driving you two home."

"Drive us to Connie's place," said Tiff. "I told Mom and Dad that's where I was going."

Marty blinked at her. "You did _what_? Listen, my parents talk to your parents _all the time_. They're gonna find out you were here. Now, fortunately my parents know better than to talk about you having a girlfriend, but you've really gotta stop lying to them."

"Right, like you stopped lying to _yours_ ," Tiff shot back, rising, and stuck the book back on the shelf where she'd found it. "Where are my clothes? I hope you washed them."

"They're clean and folded," said Marty, determined not to lose his temper. "In a brown paper bag in the next room. I'll get them for you while you guys get presentable."

Connie straightened her top and pulled her skirt down to her knees; she shoved her feet back in the bright turquoise jelly shoes she'd left on the floor beside the bed. She muttered an apology as she passed Marty and walked down the hall. Marty fetched the clothes and met Tiff back in the guest-room doorway, and it was then he realized she was in tears.

"Marty, _fuck_ ," she said, reaching for the bag. "I'm really gonna fuck this up, huh?"

" _Shhh_ , don't say that," Marty sighed, hugging her to his chest, bag and all. "You're doing the best you can, just like I did the best _I_ could. But you've gotta understand that your parents care about you even if they are, frankly, dipshits. They need to know where you are. Now, just this once, I'm not gonna ask about taking you to Connie's. I'll take you both to her place and leave it up to the two of you to straighten out your story. I think that meddling might make this worse, so I'll call my parents and tell them not to say anything. But listen to me, I _swear_ you've gotta keep them in the loop on where you are." _Yeah_ , he thought, _like you told yours you went skipping around through time and keel-hauled half the town's former existence_. "Promise me you'll do that."

"Jesus, fine, whatever," said Tiff, squeezing Marty tightly. "You're such a square."

Marty let go of her, gaping in spite of himself. "I haven't heard that one in a while."

"My mom says it, but only at home," said Tiff, grinning through her tears. "It makes me laugh. That's what she calls Dad. He gets worked up. I think she's afraid the rest of the world will think _she's_ a square." Tiff started walking toward the stairs. "I kinda like it."

Marty followed her down to the living room, where they found Doc and Connie with mugs of herb tea. Doc's solution to heartache was sometimes breaking out this chamomile-and-liquorice stuff that didn't taste as weird as it smelled, and, in this case, it was probably a hangover preventative in disguise. Connie was smiling, at least.

"All right, this train's pulling out of the station," he said, snagging his truck keys.

Doc looked like he didn't want to stay behind, but the truth was that Marty could only cram two other people in the front of the truck anyway. With his luck, Connie's parents were going to live way the hell on the other side of Lone Pine Mall, but when she told him they were literally just half a mile away in the winking lights of Hilldale housing development, Marty sighed in relief. She said she'd _walked_ over earlier.

"I'm still gonna drive you home," Marty said, firing up the ignition. "Seat-belts on."

"Tiff's right," Connie said, but she did as she was told. "You sound like my mom."

"Yeah, well," Marty said. "Apparently I sound like _everyone's_ mom, so deal with it."

It was ten past one when Marty got back. He found Doc fast asleep on the sofa with Einstein equally fast asleep in Doc's lap. He reached down and scratched behind the dog's ears, getting an affectionate palm-lick for his trouble. He kissed Doc's forehead.

"Since I'm everybody's goddamn mother," he said, "it's bedtime. No ifs, ands, or buts."

"For what it's worth, Marty," said Doc, smiling sleepily, "you're a pretty good parent."

"Did you get that from Einie?" Marty asked, shooing the dog to the floor, playfully tugging Doc to his feet. "Did your gadget for deciphering canine language work?"

"Nah," Doc replied, hustling Marty toward the stairs. "Just from Connie. She said she envies Tiff having a brother-figure like you. She's always wanted siblings."

"One thing for sure, I'll never regret _not_ having kids," said Marty, grinning.

"I hope that's true," Doc said, flipping the light switch when they reached the top of the stairs. "I'd never forgive myself for closing off the possibility of a better future for you."

"What we saw in now-non-existent 2015 is _not_ what I would've called a better future," Marty said, stripping out of his shirt. "In fact, the only good things to come out of that were the hoverboard and _maybe_ the almanac data. Everything else, I can do without."

Doc turned down the covers, giving Marty a candid look. "As long as you're sure."

"We are not having this conversation, case _closed_ ," Marty said. "I'm gonna brush my teeth. If your ass is snoring when I get back in here, I'm gonna wake you up and make you go brush yours." He kicked out of his jeans. "This is us, Doc. This is _now_."

Doc _did_ fall asleep while Marty was using the bathroom, but Marty didn't actually have the heart to wake him, so he got Doc under the covers, turned out the light, and crawled in beside him. You really _did_ have to own your life and your choices, and, as he drifted off to sleep, Marty decided that his so far were turning out pretty _great_ given the odds.

In the morning, Marty woke up before Doc, which felt like some kind of bizarre first. He got out of bed as quietly as he could, because, sheesh, a few beers and a bunch of Pepsi Free added up to _really_ needing to piss. His stomach growled while he was washing his hands, so he left the bathroom and wandered downstairs, surveying the damages. There were beer bottles scattered here and there, but largely upright on flat surfaces, and Doc's motley assortment of 1940s and 1950s glassware that people had used for other purposes appeared to be intact (if somewhat sticky).

Marty removed a beer bottle from the mantelpiece and knocked down the mail his mother had brought in yesterday.

 _Ah,_  he thought, and sorted through the envelopes. _Utilities, utilities, Stanford_ —

"Christ on a bike," he said, staring at the third in disbelief. "No fucking _way_."

Marty didn't open the letter, _couldn't_ bring himself to do it. He dropped the utility bills back on the floor and clutched the Stanford envelope to his chest, racing back upstairs in such a rush that he narrowly avoided tripping over Einstein. Doc stirred when Marty, landing full-force on the mattress, shoved the envelope right in his face. He yawned.

"Marty, what's this?" asked Doc, thickly, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"I don't care what time it is," Marty said, shaking the letter. "You've gotta open this for me. I don't think I can do it. I need some distance, or a—a filter. Tell me what it says."

Doc struggled into a sitting position, still groggy, squinting at the official return-address. He raised his eyebrows at Marty, trying for neutral-slash-hopeful, but Marty knew Doc's pulse was probably racing as fast as his. Doc tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter, angling it away so that Marty wouldn't be able to inadvertently read it.

"Come on, Doc," Marty prompted, shaking his arm. "Now the suspense is killing _me_."

"Guess it's time for me to get that earring and go apartment-hunting," Doc replied.


	4. Stand Your Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _but boy, you are gonna stand your ground / they rise to you; you'll blow them down_
> 
> —["Rise to Me," The Decemberists](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5F1Mmr6kHpA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fourth (and probably final) installment of the 1985/86 sequence. Another Decemberists song has wormed its way into these parallel-yet-entangled timelines (see [**here**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3127463) for the 1955 take, [**here**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3266666) for the 1938 take, and [**here**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3444437) for the 1885 take); the title of this piece and summary-quote are from [**_Rise to Me_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5F1Mmr6kHpA). Another song, [**this one**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APyl6Cnbfzw), comes on the radio in passing during the story because one of my anons is a smart-ass. For [leaper182](leaper182.tumblr.com), [neverrwhere](neverrwhere.tumblr.com), [seji](seji.tumblr.com), [the-oxford-english-fangeek](the-oxford-english-fangeek.tumblr.com), [myfavoriteismike](myfavoriteismike.tumblr.com), and every other reader I didn't know was going to want more from these wonderfully challenging timelines.

**September 4 - 5, 1986**

Marty tapped the steering wheel impatiently, flipping radio stations. He hadn't counted on getting stuck in traffic on the South Valley Freeway just after noontime; if he could make it to Route 152 within the next ten minutes or so, then he wouldn't be late for his one o'clock appointment. He did a double-take at the radio, cranking up the volume.

 _Doctor! Doctor!_ by the Thompson Twins seemed ironic given he was driving the utility van instead of his truck. And also since he hadn't wanted to get out of bed, and Doc had all but _kicked_ him out of it to make sure he left the house on time. Marty swore at the radio and switched it off. He didn't want to think about what he _could've_ been doing.

Less than two weeks settling into the Menlo Park place (they'd found a Victorian triple-decker whose owner was renting out the upper floor as an eccentrically laid-out condo), Doc's boredom had brought on full blown model-building mania. Marty having an errand to run in Hill Valley had proved the perfect excuse for him to get busy; several shopping bags' worth of miniature railroad-tracks and other paraphernalia had appeared.

" _Yesss_ ," sighed Marty, relieved, turning the radio back on as traffic thinned and the exit-ramp loomed. "Fantastic," he said. "Nobody's gonna kick my ass for being late."

He reached Hill Valley with about ten minutes to spare, which meant he had time to park the utility van in one of two currently available spots outside Biff's Auto Detailing. He rummaged a plastic shopping bag out of the cleared-of-Doc's-bizarre-science-crap glove compartment and made one last pass at the back in case he'd missed any trash. He almost dropped the empty soda can he'd found beneath the driver's seat when somebody banged on one of the van's back windows. He glanced over his shoulder.

Tiff grinned, and then made a face at him. "Hey, McFly! The _hell_? You're early!"

"Shut the fuck up," said Marty, under his breath, grinning back at her as he made his way to the rear-door handles and exited the vehicle. "Nice to see you, too. What gives?"

Tiff hung back from the doors, which were now flung wide, hooking her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans. "I had a bet with Dad. I said you'd be late, and he said on-time."

"Then I guess nobody wins," Marty said, looking her up and down. Most of her jeans were well-worn hand-me-downs from a time when Biff _hadn't_ sported the significant paunch he had now; the difference was that she'd ditched her habitual canvas slip-ons or Birkenstocks for a pair of red Chuck Taylors. She was as skinny as ever, had no chest to speak of, and might have even grown a half-inch since the start of the summer.

"Typical," she said, running both hands through her wavy, sun-highlighted dirty blond hair, which was— _oh,_ right. Which was short now, hacked off at chin-length where once it had been shoulder-length and perpetually pulled back. "It's the last thing guys notice."

"You're looking kinda butch yourself," Marty told her, tugging one of the rolled-up sleeves of her Madras shirt. "Did Connie talk you into it, or are you experimenting?"

Tiff shrugged, blowing a curl out of her eyes. She looked ever so slightly like her father as a young man, at least as her features went, Marty couldn't deny that, but her eyes were hazel like her mother's, not blue like Biff's. The wavy hair had come from Jo, too.

"Dunno," she said. "Maybe? She thought I'd be cute in more guys' clothes."

"You pull off the look," Marty admitted, and that's when the twins appeared.

"Hi, butthead," said Doug, distinguishable only because he looked slightly more like Jo in the face and had his father's eyes. "Dad says not to go anywhere. He's almost done."

"Yeah, _butthead_ ," Don echoed, but somewhat shyly, hanging off his older sister's wrist. He had hazel eyes like Tiff, but, minus that feature, Marty was willing to bet _this_ was how Biff had looked in grade-school. "That car of yours looks _rad_. Is it really old?"

"Nah," Marty told him, and then winked at Doug just to throw the surly brat off. "It's the eighty-one model, so that means it's five years old. Okay, maybe it's getting there."

"Do you mean that stupid van or the one Dad's fixing?" demanded Doug, defiantly.

"We meant the one your dad's been working on," said Marty, winking at Don this time, and the boy flushed with pride. "This clunker of a van's even older than _that_."

"Oh my God, shut your _traps_ ," Tiff muttered, wrangling both boys in by their skinny necks, one in the crook of each elbow. "Mom's right. You've got _zero_ manners."

"Oh, _hey_!" Biff exclaimed, puttering out from one of the open work-bays where his two employees were busy with other tasks, DeLorean keys in hand. "She's good as new."

Marty accepted the keys, giving them a toss in the air. "That's great, Biff. Thanks," he said, sticking the keys in his breast pocket, snagging the van keys in exchange. "The other part of your payment, as agreed," he said, handing them over. "Do whatever you want with it. We gave it a once-over, just like you asked. It's ready for scrap."

Biff made a few shooing motions at the kids, who scattered—all except for Tiff, who tailed them at a safe distance as Biff beckoned Marty inside the garage to inspect the DeLorean. "Between you and me? I don't know what Doc Brown _did_ to this thing. I've never seen that kind of damage on a vehicle before. All those weird circuits—"

"Yeah, well," said Marty, rubbing his neck, searching for an appropriate lie, "between you and me, some of those... _modifications_ were my fault. He let me mess around with it."

Biff blinked, looking vaguely impressed. "Then you're getting to be a decent novice engineer, I'll give you that much," he replied, his brow furrowing. "What'd they _do_?"

"Ah," Marty said, hoping to misdirect him, "they, _uh_. Made it light up. Kinda flashed in programmable sequences and patterns, that kind of thing. It was just for show."

Hanging against the wall, Tiff coughed into both hands. It sounded like _bullshit_. Marty was startled enough to give her an indignant look, but she stared back, challenging him.

"Guess the old man got tired of that real fast, huh?" Biff asked, eyes narrowing.

"I guess so," Marty conceded. "He, _ah_ —he regretted us making a mess of it."

Biff stood with his arms folded across his chest while Marty opened the driver's side door, inspecting the interior; Tiff pushed away from the wall and stood beside her father. Marty was busy examining the space where the flux capacitor had once been _when_ —

"Doc Brown moved out there to keep on being your roommate?" Biff asked as Marty sat down in the driver's seat, slotting his key into the ignition. "While you're in school?"

Marty glanced at Tiff, wondering if she'd been chattering too much about her quite frankly _sweet_ weekday dog-and-house-sitting gig. She shrugged, apparently perplexed.

"Yeah. He did," Marty finally responded, revving up the engine. "Easier for me to make rent that way, and it keeps Doc from getting lonely. Why give up a solid arrangement?"

"When do your classes start?" asked Tiff, abruptly forgetting whatever unspoken thing it was that had momentarily made her side with Biff. "Have they told you that yet?"

"September twenty-second," Marty sighed, reaching up for the door handle. "Can't wait. Listen, Biff," he said, saluting both Tannens with his free hand, "the car looks _great_."

"My pleasure," said Biff, returning the salute, but his smile was strained. "Nice doing business with the McFlys, as always. Don't be a stranger. My kid here misses ya."

"It's Thursday," said Tiff, crestfallen, waving. "You won't be coming back tomorrow evening and staying till Sunday like usual, will you? That wouldn't make sense."

"Sadly, no," said Marty, tugging the door down another fraction. "It's Thursday. Doc sends his regards. He says to take good care of Einie through the weekend, too, and you can crash in the guest room if you want. No wild parties, d'you hear? We'll see you _next_ weekend, and we'll take Einie back with us for a bit to give you a break from sitting."

"At least the joint custody thing's working out," she sighed. "Yeah, okay. _Butthead_."

Marty rolled his eyes, waved one last time, and slammed the door shut. "You wish."

Fortunately, Marty wasn't going to be late for stopping off at home, either, like he'd promised. The drive to his parents' place took all of five minutes; he had to park in the street because a car he recognized as belonging to Grandpa Arthur and Grandma Sylvia was taking up space in the driveway. His parents must've told them he'd be stopping by.

"Look what the cat dragged in," said Linda, breaking into a smirk as she answered the door. "You're just in time for the party. Craig and Dave and Dad are out back messing around with the grill. Stay for a hot dog or two; Grandma's missed you."

" _Is_ that my precious boy I hear?" demanded Sylvia, disbelieving, grabbing her cane from where she'd propped it against the coffee table, getting up in spite of Lorraine's attempt to keep her seated. "Oh, Marty, just _look_ atcha," she said, patting his cheek before folding him in a tenacious hug. "You're so handsome. Ain't he handsome, Artie?"

Arthur, over in George's armchair, turned down the television. "Yes, darling. He is."

"Hey, Grandpa," Marty said, letting Sylvia drag him over to sit between her and Lorraine on the sofa. Linda, muttering under her breath about spoiled youngest sons, went to sit at the kitchen table with the novel she'd been reading ( _Regrets Only_ , by Sally Quinn).

"Now, Marty," said Lorraine, tugging him in by his shirt-front to smack a kiss against his cheek as he sat down, "kiss your poor mother and tell us _all_ about the new apartment!"

Marty rubbed at the trace of lipstick she'd left behind, experiencing a terrible moment of temporally-displaced _déjà vu_. "It's pretty wild," he said. "Doc's hobby is taking over."

"What, those strange science contraptions like my son writes about?" groused Arthur.

"Nah, the other hobby," Marty told him. "Maybe you don't know about that. He builds these insanely detailed models from scratch. It's ridiculous. He has a thing for trains."

"You had a thing for trains," Linda chimed in, twirling her hair. "When you were _five_."

"Honey-pie, don't torment your brother," chided Sylvia, patting Marty's arm. "I can't believe it. You're grown up and off to _college_. I'm so sorry we missed your graduation party, kiddo, but you know your grandfather. He just loves his cruises. Doncha, Artie?"

Arthur waved his hand at Sylvia, gave Marty his signature _that's-women-for-ya_ look, and turned the television volume back up. Retired accountants, Marty supposed, just wanted to watch pre-game sports nonsense for hours and hours in peace. He and Sylvia, equal partners in their business, had run a successful firm in Hill Valley for decades.

On reflection, no wonder George McFly had become a writer. Too many numbers.

"First round comin' up!" Dave exclaimed, bursting in through the sliding glass doors with one of Lorraine's Corningware platters in hand. He stepped aside to let Craig come by with another, giving Marty a funny look as he set his own on the table. "What're you doing here? Don't you have unpacking to do for, like, the second time this summer?"

Marty took a deep breath, trying not to wonder what Grandma Sylvia tightly squeezing his wrist might imply as far as what she knew (or didn't). "I took a day off. Is that cool?"

"Man, that's extra cool," said Craig, grinning as he set down his tray. "How are you doing?" he asked, moving to the opposite end of the table so he could kiss Linda on top of the head. "And how's Doc, anyway? Would you get on him about those papers I need him to sign? That property of his isn't going to zone itself. At least the garage isn't."

Linda patted Craig's hands where they rested against her padded shoulders. "Shush."

"I'll take it up with him when I get back tonight," Marty promised, getting to his feet, turning to let Sylvia take his arm. "I'll stick around for food, but I can't stay too long."

"You'll stay as long as it takes to tell me what classes you're going to be taking this semester," said George, clattering in with two smaller plates (one loaded with hamburgers, unlike the ones Dave and Craig had hauled in, and one loaded with corn on the cob). "Your major might be undecided, but that's no reason to be tight-lipped."

Marty ate at the table with George, Lorraine, Linda, and Craig while everybody else went back to claim various seats in the living room. Marty stumbled through his list of core requirements and electives that interested him off the top of his head; because registration hadn't taken place yet, he couldn't say exactly which sections he'd end up in for fall.

George and Lorraine were especially pleased to hear he'd tested out of freshman comp by the skin of his teeth. Dave snorted when Marty said he might look into a lit crit course.

"I thought you were done trying to impress that Parker girl?" he ventured derisively.

"Dave, I swear to _God_ ," Linda said, raising her voice as Arthur upped the volume further.

"I'm not trying to impress anybody, you idiot," Marty snapped, raising his voice so that Dave, on the sofa next to Sylvia, would hear him. "Louis's cousin Toni's going into her sophomore year at Stanford, so I asked her for class recs. She said the professor's good."

"I like those Wilson kids a _lot_ ," said Sylvia, changing the subject. "They're so talented."

"Plus I'll still be able to play with 'em, because the others come out to do weeknight gigs with her sometimes," Marty continued, ignoring the silent, seething ball of rage that Dave had instantaneously become. "Not a bad way to pick up some spare cash."

"Sylvia has a point," said Arthur, unexpectedly. "Don't give up playing guitar just because you've gotten into that fancy school. There's pride in working with your hands."

Dave said something that was too muffled for Marty to hear, but George must've caught some of it, because he pointedly wiped his mouth and stood up. "Get out," he said.

"Dad," said Linda, uneasily, rising and tugging on his sleeve. "Let me handle it, okay?"

"No way do I need to be told twice," said Dave, vanishing back the hall with his plate.

George sat back down, reaching for Lorraine's hand. She'd grown instantly withdrawn.

"Goddamn time-zone difference," Arthur muttered placidly. "No game for hours yet."

After a few moments of awkward silence in which almost everyone, Marty included, had gone back to eating, Linda started babbling about the book she was reading. Craig must've read it already, because he kept excitedly interjecting with near-spoilers. Before Marty knew it, they'd passed a full hour like that. Literary conversation agreed with him.

Not long after asking George how progress on his sequel was going, Marty carried his plate into the kitchen and said he'd better be going. He'd promised Doc he'd be home before dark, and with a four-hour drive ahead of him, he'd better hit the road. Once everyone else had kissed Marty and patted his shoulder and said their goodbyes, Sylvia shuffled Marty over to the door and hugged him harder than ever.

"That odd scientist gentleman," she said right in his ear. "Is he takin' care of you?"

"Yeah, Grandma," he said softly, squeezing her. "He is. We take care of each other."

"As long as you're as happy as your parents tell me, _bingo_ ," she said. "Get outta here."

Once he was safely back in the newly tricked-out DeLorean, Marty screeched out of the driveway and hit the highway as quickly as he could. He missed all the traffic by a long shot, grateful he hadn't had much to drink while hanging out with his family. Three hours, forty-eight minutes, and one pit stop later, he pulled up in the driveway alongside the house that he and Doc had decided to call home-away-from-home.

The three flights of stairs weren't his favorite thing in the world, never mind that Doc loved how much exercise they got going up and down. He knocked three times and even put his key in the lock before he realized the door was open. Sighing, he stepped inside.

"It's coming on dusk," said Doc, engrossed in gluing what looked like a tiny piece of fake sagebrush to an only slightly less tiny fake rock, "which means you're right on time."

Marty kicked out of his sneakers, crossed the room, and dropped both sets of keys on the corner of the coffee table (hoping Doc might notice one of them meant the DeLorean's return). He sat down beside Doc on the sofa, patiently watching as Doc finished gluing a few more landscape accents together. He was lucky to have caught Doc here instead of in the spare room where he'd already set up a table onto which he'd chalked his layout.

"Starting small, huh?" Marty asked as Doc held out the last for him to inspect. "Devil's in the details." He let his head drop against Doc's shoulder. "I might need a rest before—"

Doc kissed him with gentle thoroughness, one hand against Marty's jaw, the other carefully setting aside his miniature landscape feature. "If you're tired, let's get some food in you," he said between kisses, "and then _sleep._ You drove eight hours today."

"Sleep my _ass_ ," Marty muttered, squirming into Doc's lap, toppling him back against the cushions. Unbuttoning his shirt wasn't any hardship when Doc was already running his hands along Marty's waist, his deft fingers tracing patterns up Marty's belly and chest.

"I don't want you to think we have to do anything special tomorrow," said Doc, out of breath as Marty wriggled to straddle him more comfortably. "It's just another day."

"It's your birthday, Doc, so we're gonna do whatever you want," Marty said, starting in on Doc's buttons, slipping his fingers beneath the ridiculous train-cactus-and-cowboy-printed yellow fabric. "Starting right _now_ , in fact. I got your present just in time."

"What do you think of Hill Valley circa 1885 as the subject of the model I'm working on?" Doc asked, faltering slightly when Marty nipped at his neck. "Coyote Pass, Clayton Ravine, _et cetera_. All the tracks our forebears left behind, restored _to_ —to former glory?"

"You know I like it when you talk dirty," Marty retorted, pushing his hips pointedly against Doc's. _Might be nice to get off just like this_ , he thought, but not for long.

"I'll take that as a _yes_ ," sighed Doc, tugging sharply at the waistband of Marty's jeans.

Naked, lazy hand jobs were nearly at the top of Marty's list of favorite things about being with Doc. The guy didn't know how to shut up, but he did know just what to say after a certain point to set Marty's pulse hammering in his ears, _every single time_ , as he came.

After that, Doc was too close to coming for a blow job to be worth it, but Marty teased Doc with licks and kisses until Doc's thighs trembled. Until he could sit back and let his hand work the home stretch and watch Doc, thinking, _God, how'd we get so lucky?_

"Hey," he said once they'd cleaned up and dozed for a while, sitting up, and, to Doc's perplexity, struggled back into his clothes. "Get dressed. I wanna show you something."

Doc did as he was told, following Marty to the window. "What's so important it can't—"

"Happy Birthday, Doc," said Marty, hugging him. That it could still seem so profound an action after they'd fooled around on the sofa spoke _volumes_. "Good as new, isn't it?"

"Better than when I bought it," said Doc, kissing Marty's temple. "Thanks, Future Boy."

They ordered Mexican from a mom-and-pop place up the street and set up Doc's antique telescope out on the balcony. And, since it was Doc's birthday wish, Marty let him give lectures about constellations and comets and quasars till well past midnight.

 

 

**September 12 - 13, 1986**

The week since Doc's sixty-sixth birthday had passed quickly. They'd finished unpacking around Marty attending various orientation activities on campus and Doc getting the landscaping of his model so well underway that Marjane, their mid-forties-ish landlady who also happened to occupy the first and second floors, was impressed.

"Has he been doing this his whole life?" she'd asked Marty, slightly awe-struck.

"At least since his late teens or early twenties, yeah," Marty had replied, watching Doc make some minor, yet critical adjustments to the sparse greenery in his miniature desert landscape. "Sometimes having a scale model helps with an experiment."

"I started following his column a few years back," Marjane had said, casually offering Marty a drag on the joint she'd been nursing. "One of the papers out here reprints it."

"Yeah, Doc told me," Marty had confirmed, refusing. "Never thought he'd see the day."

"Is that what you call him?" she'd said, waving the joint, catching Doc's eye. "His column and the lease both say Emmett. I mean, he's got a doctorate and all. I get it."

"It's what Marty calls me," Doc had said, accepting the joint, but only once he'd consulted Marty with a glance. "Most Hill Valley denizens call me Doc Brown or Emmett Brown."

"Then what should _I_ call you?" Marjane had asked, watching Doc take a puff.

"Whatever you like," Doc had replied, returning the joint to her. "Much obliged."

They'd also helped Toni Wilson move into an apartment across town that she'd be sharing with a junior and two seniors. Her cousin, Louis, and her siblings, Isadine and Emerson, had all turned out to lend a hand. It was the first time they'd seen each other in weeks.

"Your new place is working out?" Louis had asked, dabbing at his forehead with a navy-blue bandanna. They were all dressed in ratty clothes and mostly covered in dust.

"I'd say so," Marty had said. "The landlady's crazy about Doc. Gets a kick out of him."

"Anybody'd be crazy about him as long as they didn't have to live with him," Isadine had teased, hauling a box past them toward the staircase with Emerson's assistance. "Isn't that what you told me? I bet you haven't got room for your amps because of his science shit."

"Don't listen to her, man," Emerson had cut in. "She's just jealous you get good weed."

"It's not my thing, but Doc sorta likes it," Marty had responded, shrugging. "S'cool."

"Marty, I don't trust anybody but you and Lou to help me get these drums upstairs in one piece," Toni had announced breathlessly, barreling down the stairs past her siblings.

At that point, Marty'd had an epiphany that he probably should've had a long time ago, nodding to Louis, following him and Toni over to the remaining cargo. "Why did your parents choose Louis?" he'd asked, thinking of Goldie and Candace. "Family name?"

"Nah," Louis said, taking one blanket-wrapped cymbal, handing it off to Marty. "Believe it or not, my old man had this hard-ass boss back in the day. Grumpy dude, but Dad learned a lot from him. They didn't always see eye to eye, Dad and Lou, but _—"_

"I think I know the rest of this story," Marty had said, nodding. "That's heavy."

"No, _this_ is heavy," Doc had interrupted, cruising past with a huge box in his arms. "And I remember Louis Caruthers very well," he'd added, calling back over his shoulder.

Toni had waved a bundle of drumsticks after Doc as he plodded up the stairs. "You said he's _how_ old?" she asked, baffled. "He coulda moved all this stuff upstairs by himself."

"There's no stopping Doc, you watch," Marty had muttered. "I'll die before he does."

"There's a gig on Saturday the thirteenth," Emerson had told him, dashing back down the stairs, followed closely by Isadine. "Pity it doesn't fall on the Friday. Are you in?"

"I don't see why not," Marty had said. "Doc and I will be back in town as usual."

So it was Friday the twelfth already, exactly a week on from Doc's birthday, and they'd no sooner pulled up the long driveway at the Brown Estate than Tiff and Einstein had rushed outside to greet them. She was in her dad's old jeans and yet another plaid shirt, barefoot; she hugged Marty so tightly he was sure she'd give Sylvia a run for her money.

"I miss you jerks so much," Tiff muttered against Marty's neck, so he patted her back.

"We've missed you, too," said Doc, crouching to let Einstein lick his face while he scratched behind the dog's ears. "That's _right_ , you little devil. Who's been a good boy?"

"Einie's okay as long as somebody he likes is feeding and walking him," Marty said, extracting himself from Tiff's embrace. "Fortunately for us, he likes you just fine."

Tiff nodded, her initial flush of happiness dimming somewhat. "I, uh, have to show you guys something. It's nothing major. I think it's been happening to houses over in the development, too. Connie's parents have heard stuff from their neighbors. C'mon."

Marty exchanged concerned glances with Doc as she led them around to the back of the garage, whistling so that Einstein would follow instead of chasing the cabbage butterfly in which he'd taken an interest. The reason for this excursion became immediately evident: somebody had spray-painted _DICKS_ on one side and _LOSERS_ on the other.

"Well, according to you, I guess that's us," Marty sighed, scratching his forehead. At least it wasn't something like _FAGGOTS_ , because that would've been a hell of a lot more specific and threatening. "I dunno. If it's just dumb kids, maybe we shouldn't worry."

Doc's features, unreadable for the first few seconds he'd spent examining the damage, hardened in a way that Marty had only seen once before (when they'd been at Courthouse Café in July and Biff had pulled Marty outside). "You can hang around this weekend while we're home," Doc told Tiff sternly, "but I don't want you here by yourself anymore. We'll keep Einstein with us during the week and bring him home on weekends so you can come out and see him." Tiff made a dismissive sound, but as Marty made a curt gesture, she fell silent. "It's too dangerous for you to be here."

"But I didn't _hear_ anything," Tiff said. "They must do it when they know nobody's _—_ "

"You're not getting hurt on our watch," Marty snapped, belatedly crouching to give the now worried, whimpering Einstein scritches and a nose-bump. "What Doc says, goes."

"I didn't think I was getting a second set of parents out of this deal," she muttered, curling her exposed toes in the parched grass. She shoved her hands in her pockets and walked back around the front of the house. "Fucking _sucks_ ," Marty thought he heard her add as he, Doc, and Einie followed at a slower pace, apprehensively hanging back.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," Doc said, sticking his hands in _his_ pockets, an eerie echo of Tiff's actions moments earlier. "This place isn't safe for her anymore."

"At least home doesn't seem _too_ dangerous," Marty replied. "I think she and Connie are actually being careful. There'd have been some huge blow-up by now, I just know it."

Marty spent the rest of the evening moodily watching first-season _Golden Girls_ reruns on television while, over at the dining-room table, Doc tried to interest Tiff in the detail-work he was still performing on various pieces of landscape for his model. The girl seemed to be ignoring more than half of what he said, listlessly feeding Einstein bits of mozzarella stick while she let her attention flit in and out of focusing on the sitcom.

 _There's something else wrong_ , Marty thought, tuning out the commercial break. _I could tell that day I saw her at the auto shop. This spray-paint must be pretty new, or she'd have told me about it then. Whatever this thing is, it's been bugging her for a few weeks._

A couple of hours later, Doc gave up on both of them and went to bed early. As soon as he'd gone upstairs, Marty turned off the television, got to his feet, fed Einstein, and then went over to the table where Tiff was still picking the breading off cold mozzarella.

"If you don't tell me what's going on," he told her, pulling out the chair beside her, taking a seat, "I'm gonna have my mom talk to your mom. And you _know_ how my mom is."

Tiff groaned and shoved a mangled mozzarella fragment in her mouth. "My mom _is_ the problem," she said, and it seemed to Marty that the load on her lightened the second she said it, but there was some distinct holding-back in the guilty set of her eyebrows. "She'll only let me go to Connie's place, like, every other week, and if I want to see her any other time, we've gotta sneak around at school or see each other down at the garage."

"The garage?" asked Marty, blankly. "But what about your dad? Aren't you afraid _—_ "

"He caught us a few weeks ago," said Tiff, bluntly. "Walked in on us kissing in the den before Mom got home with the twins. Connie bolted. Ran out of the house so fast I couldn't even react." She squeezed her eyes shut at the memory; Marty resisted the urge to touch her shoulder, letting her work through it. "At first, he was...really pissed off. Like...he spent about ten minutes or so shouting about how the _hell_ could I do that under his roof? And what in God's name did I think I was, some dyke? I shouted back, yeah, Dad, that's right. I'm a dyke, Connie's a dyke, we're _all_ dykes. Go fuck yourself." By then, she was crying, so Marty _did_ set a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

"That's shitty," he said. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. What happened next?"

"Actually, that's what surprised me," she replied, wiping her eyes with her unused napkin, hiccupping out a laugh as Einstein licked her hands. "He asked me if _you_ were a dyke, too, and then did that funny backpedaling thing he does when he knows he's gotten the wrong word for something and said, no, wait, gay, I meant is Marty _gay_. And I told him you and Doc had a thing going, _duh_ , but it was nobody's business what it was or if you guys say you're gay or not. I've never heard you say that, but what do I know? Didn't you tell me you've both found women attractive in the past? Anyhow, here's where it gets weird. Dad just nodded and got this satisfied I-fucking-knew-it smirk on his face and said, I quote, _Now everything makes sense_. I think it's because he just wanted to be _right_ about something for once. Your parents weren't telling him jack shit, and I know he'd been trying to get it out of them for months. He didn't say anything else about you and Doc after that. He informed me Mom would flip if she found out—flip worse than he did, I guess—and that I was dead meat if I told anybody. He told Mom that night he thought I was spending too much time running around with friends and that my grades might suffer. So I'm on restricted Connie access, but Dad feels guilty that I'm sad I can't see her as much, so he lets her come around the garage. Can you _imagine_? He's protecting us."

 _Biff fucking Tannen_ , Marty thought, disbelieving. _All he wanted was confirmation his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. Jesus, Mom. You were wrong about him. Partly._

"D'you think what I said last week will put the matter to rest?" Marty asked. "You know, when he asked if Doc moved out to Menlo Park to keep on being my roommate. Hearing it directly from the horse's mouth, that kind of thing? Well, jeez," Marty sighed, resting his chin in both hands. "Whatever else we are, we aren't straight. He got that right."

"There ya go," Tiff sighed, stuffing some more cheese in her mouth, as if she'd remembered she was starving. "I'm bummed because I can't see my girlfriend much."

"That does suck," Marty agreed. He got up resolutely and went over to the fridge, pulling out a couple of beers. "Rules: we're only having one each, and don't tell a soul. Deal?"

"As long as you don't tell my mom I drink your booze," said Tiff, smirking, "I won't tell your mom your landlady gives you guys weed." She clinked their bottles. "Deal."

Marty drove Tiff home around one in the morning. Fortunately, it was Biff who came outside to meet her. The hand-off was kind of awkward, but when Biff looked at Marty now, it seemed like everything was cool, maybe more cool than things had ever been.

"Sorry, Doc," Marty whispered, tiptoeing into the bedroom once he'd gotten back, brushed his teeth, and washed his face. He slipped under the covers and said, "Girl talk."

"Heaven knows she needs somebody to do it with," Doc mumbled thickly, rolling to sling his arm protectively around Marty, pulling him in tight. "That strict mother of hers..."

 _Well, well,_ Marty thought, sighing as he began to drift off. _I'm always the last to know. And whatever else is eating at Tiff, I'll probably be the last person to know that, too._

They had a leisurely Saturday morning in bed, which Marty felt like they hadn't had in a while given the hectic nature of unpacking and acclimating to a new town. For once, it was Doc who went soundly back to sleep after they'd finished, so Marty got up and pored over the phonebook for likely companies to enlist in cleaning the graffiti off the garage.

He was eating Frosted Flakes when he finally got through to somebody who could send a couple of guys out the next day, so that was something. Promises of tidy pay probably had something to do with it. Marty didn't like to flaunt Doc's money unless he had to.

They wasted the afternoon on more of Doc's model-feature tinkering and lunch down at Courthouse Café. They got home to an answering machine message from Louis asking Marty not to forget his guitar when they showed up at the Bluebird Lounge that evening.

"I'm glad he's not asking me to bring my saxophone," said Doc. "I'm too out of practice."

The crowd was full of yuppies and local rich twinks, but Marty figured he had no room to judge, what with his parents' upper middle-class success and the wealth _he'd_ pretty much married into. Doc looked perfectly content to sit at their table near the back ordering virgin cocktail after virgin cocktail, applauding louder than anyone else between sets.

They wrapped up about half an hour before last call, so Marty went to sit with Doc while Louis and his cousins shot the shit with random admirers at the bar. Doc had ordered an _actual_ cocktail for Marty; the martini had been waiting for him when he'd arrived sweating and tired from the stage. Doc had probably also slipped the waiter a twenty so he wouldn't check Marty's ID. Marty sipped his drink, not sure he liked gin and vermouth all that much, but Doc looked really, _really_ great tonight, and he wanted...

He shouldn't have done it, kissing Doc like that, not even as briefly and decorously as he did. But Doc leaned into it, _letting_ him, and nobody was paying them any attention.

At least he hadn't _thought_ anyone had been paying attention until later, when, on their way back to the car, they were interrupted by a whistle from across the parking lot.

"You're lucky you aren't in L.A.!" shouted the drunken stranger. "George McFly's kid and the local Mr. Wizard? The papparazzi'd be all over that! Get a fuckin' room, huh?"

Doc had to shove Marty in the passenger side of the DeLorean and get them out of there before he could leap back out and chase down the guy. Marty was absolutely _livid_.

"Hopefully that was some out-of-towner," Doc sighed, gripping the steering wheel white-knuckled as he drove them to the Estate. "I'm glad we're not here during the week now."

 _I knew this was going to suck sometimes_ , Marty thought, _but this? This is a nightmare._

 

 

**September 15 - 16, 1986**

****It was Monday, so they'd had some time to decompress. They'd hit the road for Menlo Park mid-morning the day before instead of waiting till late afternoon; Einstein hadn't enjoyed the trip at _all_ , so they'd found it necessary to stop three or four times to keep him from getting too antsy. Exhausted and too worried for words, Marty had fallen asleep around nine o'clock Sunday evening and hadn't awakened till—well, _now_.

Doc wasn't in bed, so Marty rubbed his eyes, checking the clock. Eleven thirty-seven in the morning, how had he managed that? He threw on jeans and a t-shirt, wandering out to the living room. Doc wasn't there, but the remnants of his breakfast were.

Marty found Doc patiently laying tracks in the model room. Einstein was watching.

"I've never seen a dog so fascinated by what its humans are doing," he said to Einie.

Einstein trotted over to Marty, eagerly wagging his tail. Doc looked up from his work.

"It comes with breeding," he said. "Polish Lowlands are bright, docile, and inquisitive."

"You're really making great time on this, Doc," Marty observed. "And it's even to scale."

"Models were the one hobby my parents didn't fuss about," Doc said, carefully brushing dust away from where he next intended to apply glue. "They thought it was safe enough."

Marty examined the incomplete bridge and the ravine, which was really more of a canyon. "I wonder about that story," he said. "About your telescope. If it's true."

Doc held up one hand, smiling, and went over to the shopping bags in the corner. " _Aha_ ," he said, "then I have the feeling you might appreciate this." He rummaged in plastic packaging hidden within one of the bags, dropped several tiny pieces in his palm, and brought them over for Marty to inspect. The figure of a woman in old-fashioned dress, unpainted and indistinct. A piece that might be made to look like the cylinder of a telescope, plus bits from which a tripod might be constructed. "Whether it's true or not, legends are part of our history. I thought I'd set her up stargazing a safe distance back."

Marty grinned at him. "Nice touch. So are you gonna put any other people in here?"

Before Doc could answer, a horrendously loud car-horn blared outside. Doc cringed, so Marty took the pieces off his hands and put them away while Doc covered his ears.

"I'll go down and see what the fuss is about!" said Marty, cringing, and dashed out.

There was a cab parked along the curb. Marjane was on the porch, sipping her spice tea and smoking. She looked up when Marty paused at the top of the steps, squinting.

"Are you and Doc expecting any visitors?" she asked. "Because I think she's yours."

Tiff got out of the cab and stretched, shouldering her backpack as she yawned."That bus ride took five hours," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I'm _never_ doing it again. Hi!"

"Not that I'm _not_ glad to see you, but," said Marty, rubbing his forehead, "two questions. One, does your family know you're here? And two, if they don't, _what_ are you doing?"

"Mom, Don, and Doug left last night to go see her parents in San Diego. Gran and Gramps aren't so hot on my, um, _phase_ is what they like to call it," she said, picking at her decidedly masculine clothing, "so I get to cool my heels at home. With Dad, who fusses at me like some old lady. I know _his_ grandma raised him and everything, but _—_ "

"Got it," Marty sighed, marching her up the stairs, trying very hard to ignore Marjane's undisguised amusement. "Your Dad's busy at work, so you gave him the slip and hopped on a bus. Couldn't you have, I don't know, used the time to go see Connie or something?"

Tiff clutched her backpack strap with both hands, looking suddenly much younger than she was. "Connie dumped me," she said in a small voice. "Also, there's something I..." She frowned, straightening up resolutely as Marty held the screen-door for her. "Nah, forget it. It's really not important. I just wanted to see your new place, okay?"

They were both wheezing by the time they got to the top floor, so Marty didn't feel so abnormal in light of Doc's ability to take the stairs without experiencing any ill effects. Doc came into the living room while they were both peeling out of their tennis shoes and sighed as if mentally running through the same possibilities Marty had (and reaching the same conclusion). Tiff set her backpack on the floor, appealing to him contritely.

"My mom and brothers are out of town, my girlfriend dumped me, Dad means well but he's a clueless freak, and..." Tiff paused for breath, and Marty wondered if she was about to tell Doc what she'd so far _not_ been telling him. "I enjoy wearing guys' clothes too much for anybody's liking. Also, don't tell me that's ironic, because I _know_ it is."

"Marty, call the auto shop and let Mr. Tannen know his daughter's safe," Doc sighed.

While Marty did that, Doc took Tiff into the model room to show her what he'd been doing. Marty let the phone ring six times, at which point, just as he was determined to hand up, one of Biff's flunkies answered. He had to wait on hold for another five minutes before Biff got to him, and once Marty had delivered his message, Biff wasn't too happy.

"At least I know your heart's in the right place," he sighed. "Damn that girl. Listen, I don't think I can get her tonight. We're backed up with jobs till seven. I might be able to make it out there tomorrow morning." Marty could hear the frown in Biff's voice. "Have you got anyplace she can crash that's not... _Christ_ , forget it. Got a place for her to sleep?"

"Spare bedroom's at the opposite end of the hall from ours," Marty lied helpfully. If Biff was having a hard time stomaching the thought of his daughter overhearing anything untoward, then he was going to make this conversation _that_ much more awkward.

"You're a good kid," said Biff. "Even if you turned out queer," he added, hanging up.

"Thanks, I _think_?" Marty said to the dial-tone, slamming the phone down in its cradle. He wandered into the model room, where Doc had got out some small tins of paint and Tiff was working on the figure of the woman with a paintbrush and fierce concentration.

"Is Dad gonna kick my ass into next Tuesday?" she asked. "Am I grounded for life?"

"You're in the clear for now," Marty told her. "He can't come for you till tomorrow."

"I'll make sure the spare room's looking sufficiently unpacked," Doc sighed.

They got Tiff settled in with some fresh sheets and a handful of quilts that Doc's mother had made. She joined them in the living room once she'd made her bed (punishment, Marty had insisted, for turning up uninvited) and insisted she was hungry. They couldn't argue with that, given it _was_ well past noontime and none of them had eaten.

Su Hong was a reasonable choice. They all liked Chinese food, and Tiff got to feel like she was being introduced to an institution-with-a-capital-I _institution_. Splitting an appetizer and two dishes three ways nonetheless resulted in some leftovers. Marty's fortune cookie said _All things come to him who goes after them_ ; Doc's said _Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises_. Tiff refused to share hers, crumpling it on her plate. After she'd followed Doc up to pay, Marty uncrinkled it. _If you do not run your subconscious mind yourself, someone else will,_ it said.

It was after three o'clock when they left the restaurant, so Marty drove them around in the truck by way of a guided tour. Tiff started making noises about wanting to see the Stanford campus, so he drove the ten minutes in order to oblige her. He parked in one of the lots where he knew he wasn't likely to get towed (given he wouldn't have a parking permit for another week or so), and the three of them walked till they came to the beautifully landscaped quad. Tiff shaded her eyes against the sun, sighing.

"You're gonna love it here," she said. "I just know it. You'll get a life and forget..."

"I don't forget people," said Marty, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Do I, Doc?"

"We won't forget you," said Doc, unexpectedly. "Marty least of _all_ , Ms. Tannen."

"You're so polite to me," she said to Doc, turning to face him. "Even when I don't deserve it." She hesitated, clenching and unclenching her hands. "I envy you guys."

Marty stared down at the grass, the ethereal greenness of it. "Life's not all perfect." He thought about coming home to a house and family he had, in some ways, scarcely known. "That stuff I said once about how it starts to make sense, I'm not sure that's the case."

They went back to the house shortly after that. Marjane was out on the porch again; she offered them wine and something to smoke, which Marty and Doc refused, but which Tiff accepted wholeheartedly before either one of them could protest. She went to bed quiet and relaxed, although she frowned at Marty in the hall as he wished her good night.

"There was a thing I meant to ask you about," Tiff said. "A really important thing. But I lost it. My brain is a foggy place right now, and it's totally gone. _Huh_."

"Go to bed," Marty told her, "and sleep tight." He turned his back and went out to join Doc on the sofa, flummoxed. "Had your parents been hoping for grandkids? I swear to God mine haven't even thought that far because they expected Dave and Linda to live at home forever. And they'd let 'em, too, Doc. Linda will be engaged soon, though."

Doc nodded slowly, considering the coffee table's cracked paint. "Craig is a fine young man, so I should hope she won't let him get away. To answer your question, my parents never mentioned wanting grandchildren. I think they were so worried about getting me to turn out _sensible_ that they never thought ahead, either. Some good that did."

"This is some heavy shit we're going through, Doc," Marty said, taking Doc's hand as he sat down beside him, "but I don't want you to think I regret any of it. Not even _her_."

"Waifs and strays will find their way to kindred spirits, heaven knows," Doc sighed.

Marty got to his feet, tugging Doc toward the hall. "Maybe she's here to teach us some responsibility in the same way you hoped watching Einstein would teach some to her."

"Did it teach _you_ anything, Future Boy?" Doc asked, leaning in for an unhurried kiss. ****  
  
"The canine or the kid?" asked Marty, smiling as they drew apart. He thought he'd heard a gasp in the hallway— _and_ the creak of a floorboard, perhaps—but by the time he and Doc got there, heading for their own room, Tiff's door was indisputably closed. ****  
  
In the morning, Marty left Doc to doze and went to check the freezer. They didn't have any waffles, so he threw on some clothes and walked a few blocks to the nearest convenience store. He got back with a couple boxes of Eggos in hand to find Tiff and Doc, both still pajama-clad, arguing over the stargazer's placement in the model. Marty backed off without a word, went to the kitchen, and fired up the toaster. ****  
  
Someone's car-horn blared outside, followed by an odd staccato finale, before they'd quite finished eating. Tiff's expression shifted from one of contentment to one of dread. ****  
  
"That's my dad," she sighed. "His way of telling me to get my butt outside." ****  
  
Marty wiped his mouth and said, "Hey, I'm dressed. You finish that, go get your clothes on, and pack up. I'll go downstairs and keep him busy for a while, how's that?" ****  
  
Tiff got up and hugged Marty hard. "I owe you," she said, and then dashed off. ****  
  
Doc gave Marty a concerned, questioning look, spearing another couple pieces of waffle. "Will you be all right out there, or do you want me to come down as back-up?" **  
**  
"Eat your breakfast, Doc," said Marty, shouldering his suspenders. "I've got this."

Biff had parked directly in front of the house. He was leaning against the car with his arms folded; he glanced up when Marty came down the stairs, completely unsurprised.

"She sent the scouting party, huh?" he sighed, and the tired-sounding quality to Biff's voice made Marty notice there were dark circles under his eyes. He must've left Hill Valley around eight o'clock, in order to have got there for shortly after eleven.

"Nah," Marty said, shoving his hands in his pockets, stopping on the bottom step. "She wasn't done eating, so I told her to finish and go grab her stuff. I didn't want to leave you waiting down here without a clue." _Not that anybody can give you one_ , he thought.

"You'll be thanking me for takin' her off your hands," replied Biff. "She'd eat you out of house and home within forty-eight hours. I swear it's all we can do to keep her fed."

"Don't I know it," Marty said, grinning. "Hey, ah, thanks for going easy on her lately."

Biff shrugged nonchalantly. "What you said a coupla months back left an impression."

 _How does a guy who, back in the day, thought nothing of trying to rape my mom manage such a dramatic one-eighty?_ Marty wondered, but then he had to allow that the altered timeline had meant changes for _everyone_. Maybe having your attempt foiled and getting your lights punched out by a nerd is life-changing in more ways than one.

What he said instead was, "Oh, and thanks for not... _look_ , Biff. We both know what."

Biff nodded, staring at the curb. "Don't mention it. We all gotta get with the times."

" _Daddy_!" Tiff exclaimed, barreling through the front door, down the stairs, and past Marty. She smacked right into Biff, throwing her arms around him. "I'm sorry I—"

Biff patted her on the shoulders, setting his cheek against her hair before peeling her away from him and taking her backpack off her hands. "Yeah _yeah_. I was worried, sweetie," he said, opening the passenger-side door. "Get in the car. We've got a long drive." He closed the door after her, glancing back at Marty. "Behave yourself, McFly."

Doc, clothed, came outside as Biff was pulling away. "Looks like I missed the show."

"Honey, I saw it _all_ , " said Marjane's voice from beyond the first-floor window screen.

 

 

**September 19 - 21, 1986**

"Are we sure about coming back every weekend, Doc?" Marty yawned, parking the DeLorean. "Home sweet Hill Valley. If we find more spray-paint, I'm gonna cry."

Doc got out of the car and stretched, hustling Einstein out next. "You've got the drive down pat," he said, "but if you find it tiresome, we can switch off. Or we can come back every other week, or twice a month. No less than that; I worry about Ms. Tannen and about the house. Keep in mind we'll be back in residence during the summers."

"I really do hope it was just stupid kids," Marty said, fetching their bags from behind the seats, unable to pull his mind off the subject of suspect graffiti. "I don't wanna think—"

"Marty, let's go inside," Doc said, placing one steady hand at the small of Marty's back.

They'd gotten a late start hitting the road, which meant they'd stopped for dinner en route. They turned on the downstairs lights as they passed through, leaving a worn-out Einstein to flop down in his bed. Marty led Doc upstairs, not stopping as he flipped key light-switches; he reached back for Doc, who took his hand without having to be asked.

Once they reached the bedroom, Marty dumped their bags next to the closet, turning to face Doc. The staggering multitude of clocks, now occupying the wall above the bed, ticked innocuously away. Doc tugged Marty close when he tilted up his chin for a kiss, brushing his thumb across Marty's lips, delaying Marty's action. Marty frowned at him.

"You've been working overtime to make sure nothing falls apart on us," Doc said. " _Emotionally_ speaking, Marty. You shouldn't have to do that, what when your classes start Monday. I don't want you to worry about anything this weekend." Then, only then did he kiss Marty, lingering like it was the last chance they'd ever have. "What can I do for you?"

"Fuck me," Marty said, deepening the kiss, pressing up against Doc so he could feel how hard they were both getting. "For whichever of our definitions of the word suits you best right now, Doc."

Doc nodded, paying such fierce attention to the sensitive left side of Marty's neck that Marty thought he might end up on the floor. "Get undressed," he said. "Lie down."

Taking directions from Doc was something Marty had enjoyed for as long as he could remember, at least insofar as going-on-four-years of knowing somebody was its own kind of forever. But taking directions from Doc in the bedroom was _something else_. Marty couldn't get out of his clothes fast enough, although he was curious as to why Doc was rummaging in the nightstand with greater secrecy than usual. He lay down, lifting his head from the pillow, squinting at the gadget Doc had in his hand.

"I hope that's not meant to go _inside_ ," Marty ventured, clear on the fact that it was some kind of vibrator when Doc tested the switch. The damn thing was bigger than either one of them circumference-wise, and, as for length, best not to go there. "Doc, what..."

Doc set it down on the nightstand next to the lube he'd also retrieved, stripping down to his underwear without a word.

If it was one of those nights where he wasn't going to say much, that was fine; Marty's momentary apprehension faded when Doc settled between Marty's thighs, kissing Marty till he let his head drop back against the pillow. He reached over and got some of the lube on his fingers, warming it.

"You like it when I use my fingers," Doc explained, brushing his slick thumb lightly from beneath Marty's balls down to where he'd normally press inside, have Marty shivering to pieces, "so I thought maybe I'd try something else. It doesn't involve penetration."

Marty squirmed impatiently. "I'm game for whatever you think's gonna get me off," he said, realizing it was unbelievable saying stuff like that to Doc could still make him blush even a year on.

Doc started off by sucking him for a while, no nonsense, those slick clever fingers pressing and kneading and digging in along the same stretch where he'd run his thumb, as if sussing how this would work when approached from the outside. Marty a guess where this was going, and the attention he was receiving had him mostly delirious as it was.

"Everyone thinks you're a genius because of the science stuff, but they don't know the half of it," Marty panted, carding his fingers through Doc's hair, shuddering when the softness of it brushed against his thigh. "Hurry _up_ , Doc. I can't stand the suspense."

It was tricky not to laugh at the soft, wet sound that resulted when Doc pulled off him, not quite a _pop_ , but all thoughts of laughter went out of Marty's head when the vibrator replaced the methodical exploration of Doc's fingers. Thirty seconds of _that_ and Marty couldn't even draw enough breath to sustain the strangled sound he made as he came.

"Christ, _Marty_ ," Doc groaned—such a rare thing, even semi-profanity from him in bed, _especially_ semi-profanity involving the name of somebody who was known more for his miracles than for his scientific achievements—and jerked himself off to, well, to whatever Marty must look like right now. Marty didn't even want to guess, but as long as Doc thought it was hot, he wouldn't _try_. "I'm going to declare this a— _successful_ —"

" _Shhh_ , hey," said Marty, finding his voice, easing Doc's hand away so he could take over stroking him. "As long as I get to do that to you next time, we're—aw, Doc, _yeah_ ," he sighed, contently watching every shift in Doc's features as he came. "That's more like it."

They slept late into the next morning, slept longer and sounder than Marty could remember in weeks. It felt like last November again, like those days when Marty couldn't stand to leave and Doc invariably gave in; sometimes, it had seemed, they'd make love and sleep and talk and nothing else for _days_. They'd been recovering, Marty supposed, that and making up for lost time, even for all of their attempts to set it right.

After breakfast, which might as well have been lunch given the hour, Marty suggested they wash up and head over to his parents' place. He'd promised them he'd drop by again to check in, to say hello before classes started, and Doc agreed that was only right.

They arrived shortly after two, Doc wearing his 1950s hat like he tended to do when they made house-calls (all the more charming, perhaps, because Doc new Lorraine thought it suited him). Lorraine saw them in with her usual profuse praise and offers of something to drink; Marty asked her if they had any iced tea, Doc's perpetual favorite. They didn't, she said, but George had left half a pot of English Breakfast on the counter that would be room-temperature by now, so why didn't Marty go put it in a glass and put some ice and sugar in it for the poor man?

Marty agreed, leaving his mother and Doc to catch up.

While Marty was in the middle of dropping ice cubes one by one into the three-quarters-of-a-glass of tea he'd just inadvertently over-sweetened, Dave came into the kitchen with a day-old plate in hand, dropping it in the sink. He paused when he realized Marty was looking at him, pointedly turning off the tap. Marty looked away again, concentrating.

"How's it hangin'?" asked Dave, awkwardly trying to make small-talk. "Menlo Park, huh?"

"Yeah, it's, ah, good," Marty said, giving the tea one last stir, tossing the spoon into the sink. "The apartment's pretty far-out, and the landlady's funny. You should come see."

Dave folded his arms across his chest, uncomfortably staring at their dirty dishes. "I'm not used to this yet," he said without warning, his voice soft, the words slow and carefully chosen. "I can't get my head around the fact you'd pass up on a perfectly nice girl like Jennifer Parker—someone like her would be anybody's dream, hell, _my_ dream—and take up with some guy who's got a reputation for being a real kook." Dave rubbed the side of his neck, swearing under his breath. "That came out wrong. Look, I know Doc Brown is your best friend or... _whatever_. If he floats your boat, he floats your boat, but it's been torture for me to..." He pursed his lips, as if he didn't want to say what came next. "It's been torture for me to watch both of my siblings swan around flaunting their happy, perfect matches when it's a struggle for me to even get a date. See what I mean?"

"I know this makes you uncomfortable," Marty allowed, "but I had no idea the worst of it was because you were jealous. Jesus _Christ_ , Dave. Why didn't you say something? We coulda talked this out sooner instead of you being a douchebag about it."

"Hey, guess what, bro," Dave replied, playfully jabbing Marty's shoulder. "You got all of Mom's best traits, and I got all of Dad's worst. Feelings and shit? No thanks. Linda and I could tell you all about our struggles with that. You just let it all hang out without a second thought." The jab turned into an awkward pat. "You're charmed, get it? I'm making decent money, but my career's sucking me dry. I want more out of life."

 _No, I'm an actual fucking mess a lot of the time, and I'll never be able to tell you why_ , Marty thought, but he covered Dave's hand with his own and squeezed it. "Uh, thanks."

"Anyway, I could go out there and try to talk to him," Dave sighed. "Eccentric dude with weird hobbies or not, he does sound sorta interesting. You must like him for a reason."

"C'mon," Marty said, grabbing a Pepsi Free out of the fridge, picking up Doc's iced tea. "I'll give you a proper introduction, if that's what you want. It'd be a great start."

They ended up staying through till evening and having dinner with everyone when Craig and Linda dropped by with a huge tin pan full of Craig's aunt's homemade tamales. Linda seemed so pleased to see Dave talking to Marty and Doc that Marty thought she might cry (but quickly realized it was just that she had low tolerance for the level of chili in Isabella Castillo's cooking). Marty noticed a slim, understated diamond band on her left ring finger, but she didn't bring it up, and neither did anyone else.

"That was a good night," Linda said later, following Marty out onto the porch after Doc had already gone out to start up the car. "I really didn't think Dave would come around."

Before she could pull away, Marty hugged her and kissed her cheek. "Congratulations?"

Linda smacked him on the hip. "Don't you dare say a word. We're going to have everybody out to dinner in a couple of weeks and announce it then. The ring's Cartier."

"I wouldn't have expected anything less," said Marty, letting go of her. "Keep an eye on Dave. He's gonna need your help. Maybe set him up on some blind dates or something."

"Don't think I won't _try_ ," said Linda, waving as Marty joined Doc in the DeLorean.

They got home to an answering machine message from Tiff that had been left shortly after six. She was tipsy, upset, and trash-talking her mother, and some of the background noise in the recording led Marty to believe that she'd been in Biff's office down at the auto shop. Near the end of it, there was a statement that gave Marty pause.

 _If I could just do it all over again_ , Tiff had said. _You of all people would understand._

"There's nothing we can do for her till tomorrow," Doc sighed, turning it off mid-replay.

"I'll go down to the garage after breakfast or something," Marty sighed. "I'm beat, Doc."

They caught the back half of _Frankenstein_ on cable, during which Marty fell soundly asleep. When he woke up, there was light streaming through the windows, and Doc was snoring softly against Marty's shoulder. He felt a sudden stab of longing for 1955.

 _My life is never gonna be normal_ , Marty thought, kissing Doc's forehead before disentangling himself from their sprawl. _I'll remember things that nobody else but you will remember for the rest of my life. I guess that's okay, Doc. At least we're not alone._

He showered, got dressed, and left a note for Doc on the table. _I love you_ was all it said.

Biff's Auto Detailing opened at eleven o'clock on Sundays. Marty knew this because of the information printed on the inside flap of the matchbook he'd been carrying in his pocket for almost a year, so worn now that it was about to fall apart. He remembered a time when it had read _Biff Tannen's Pleasure Paradise_. He didn't want to remember, but that was just the way things had to be.

Marty parked the DeLorean, bypassed the work-bays, and went over to the office door. He knocked on it. Tiff looked up from reading at her father's desk, clearly bored out of her skull because her mom and brothers weren't back yet. She waved at him.

"Can I come in?" Marty mouthed, pointing at the doorknob. "We've gotta talk."

"You bet we've gotta," said Tiff, as soon as she'd opened the door. She made Marty close and lock it behind him, and then drew down the blinds of an inner window that looked out on the work-bays. "Sorry I drunk-dialed you guys, but I just. It's eating away at me."

"What's eating away at you?" Marty asked, sitting down on the edge of Biff's cluttered desk. "If you're worried about us at the Estate, don't be. There's been no more graffiti."

"I looked at your stupid car while Dad had it in the shop a few weeks ago," said Tiff, her features hardening, and Marty found himself remembering a whole slew of other things he'd rather not think about. "Snuck out here at night with a flashlight and everything."

"I don't understand," Marty said. "It's just an old DeLorean we messed around with."

"Those circuits I helped Dad tear off during the day," Tiff continued, not listening to him, "the ones running along the footboard and up around the wheels, all along the perimeter? Those were some heavy-grade shit built to withstand the kind of high temperatures you'd expect from a nuclear reaction. I recognized them from one of the books Doc has in the bedroom—the ones you found me reading that night when Connie snuck over for the housewarming party, remember? Dad didn't even know what he was looking at, because of course he's never seen that on a car before, let alone any other kind of machine," she added, emphasizing those last few words.

"We were using the DeLorean for high-speed experiments," Marty said. "Satisfied?"

"That space in the back between the driver's seat and the passenger seat," Tiff said, raising her eyebrows. "I found evidence something was ripped out. Something that connected to those circuits on the exterior and also to some other piece of equipment that must've been based up near the gear-shift and the dashboard. Know anything about that? Basically, those circuits ran _everywhere_. Dad just thought Doc was a nut-job, but I was _freaked_. And I would never have known why if I hadn't been screwing around with that pink hoverboard thing you keep in the downstairs closet."

Marty let his eyes drift up from the floor, locking gazes with her. "That's one of Doc's inventions," he said. "What the hell were you doing nosing around in there?"

Tiff sat back in her father's desk-chair, steepling her fingers under her chin. "I'll never forget it," she said. "I'd played with it two or three times at least while I was over at the Estate during the week. One of the times I fell off, the thing flipped before righting itself. I saw some kind of label on the bottom, wondered why it would have that if it was probably just something Doc built in his spare time." She looked kind of lost and scared, just the way she'd looked when she'd first confronted Marty in his bedroom about what she'd seen through George's office window. "The manufacturing label says _Mattel_. It also says _Patent Pending MMXV_. I know my Roman numerals, butthead.  I also heard Doc call you _Future Boy_ the other night.  I mean, for all I knew it was just some silly endearment Doc had come up with for you, but—"

Marty ran his fingers through his hair. "You can't tell anybody about this, Tiff," he pleaded. "We almost fucked up so bad there'd have been no second chances for _anyone_."

"You and Doc traveled to the year _2015_ ," said Tiff, bitterly. "And you didn't __tell_ _ me?"  
  
"Yeah. Or, come to think of it, to a version of it that'll never exist. Jennifer went, too."  
  
Tiff's expression went from one of hurt betrayal to one of breathless wonder. "No __way__!" she exclaimed, grinning, grabbing Marty's hands. "That's amazing! What was different?"  
  
"The _JAWS_ franchise was alive and well," Marty sighed. "There were flying cars and hovering freeway signs way up in the clouds. You could get to Boston, London, __anywhere_ _ without having to take a commercial airline. And I'm pretty sure I saw some flyers advertising a Madonna concert. That'd be a hell of a lot of plastic surgery later, huh?"

"Did you see your future self?" Tiff asked. "Were you with Doc? He'd be _ninety-five_!"

Marty rubbed his eyes hard, trying to fight off yet another set of memories; at least in bearing this set, he had Jennifer's commiseration. "I didn't, but Doc and Jennifer did. Me and Jennifer were married. We were pretty miserable. In fact, knowing all that shit led to the break-up last year. Don't feel sorry for me, okay? It was already coming down the pipe. She says in the future I'd also been in a car accident that wrecked my right hand. I couldn't play. She only married me because she pitied me."

"That," said Tiff, wide-eyed, "is the heaviest shit I ever heard. Are you okay with..." She stared at her hands. "Marty, was _any_ of this ever supposed to happen?" she whispered.

"Worse stuff would've happened if we hadn't interfered," Marty said. "Far, _far_ worse."

"I can't believe you destroyed it," Tiff blurted. "A _time machine_. It's made me sick to think you guys had no idea what the possibilities could've been. To just give it up."

"We ended up in an alternate 1985 on one trip," Marty said, hoping just a tiny glimpse would be enough to drive the point home. "My dad was dead, Doc had been committed to an asylum, and your Dad was this slum-lord casino douchebag. Any questions?"

"Um, no," said Tiff, wrinkling her nose. " _Gross_. Did you see me in the future?"

"No," said Marty, quietly, "but I think I saw your would-be son. He was a mess."

"Well, any kid of mine _would_ be," she said vehemently, "because I don't want kids. And obviously I'd be in the closet and married to some guy who disgusts me, which, just,  _ew_."

"I mean, this weirdo was unlikely to have been one of your brothers' sons, given his age and the timing of it," Marty said. "But my point is: we achieved more good than harm when all was said and done, but only by the skin of our teeth." He smiled, wistful, deciding maybe he'd better leave her with something positive. "Your dad's not the brightest bulb, and I can tell you he was even more of a jerk when he was young, because I _also_ went to 1955.  I think that's when I first realized how I felt about Doc.  Anyway, what I want you to know is that you wear those clothes better than he ever did, and the personality of the individual wearing them is a vast improvement, too."

Tiff pushed out of the chair and hugged Marty hard, almost knocking him back onto the desk. "I knew there was something special about you and Doc," she said. "I _knew_."

"Hey, okay, that's enough," Marty laughed, trying to dislodge her arms from around his neck. "Why don't you come with me back up to the house? Doc ought to be awake by the time we get there, and Einie would love to see you. How about waffles and a walk?"

"Nah, I've had enough of those," Tiff said. "Let's go down to Courthouse Café for nachos instead."


	5. Make It A Good One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Alterkrmn](www.archiveofourown.org/users/Alterkrmn) and [Leaper](www.archiveofourown.org/users/leaper182), who kept asking questions about what happens next. Thanks for reading, all of you.

**January 1987**

Marty hadn't been paying attention to the faces Tiff had been making since midway through the session, but he figured that was forgivable under the circumstances. She kept wanting to attempt pieces that didn't necessarily make great duets, but her playing, at least, was _solid_. Marty killed the ending chord and dropped his pick on the floor while Tiff winced and plucked a few random strings in the aftermath.

Doc was their only audience; he'd clap no matter what.

"That was probably the worst rendition of _(Don't Fear) The Reaper_ ever," said Tiff, blowing hair out of her eyes. "Sorry, guys," she added. "AP Chem, I can hack. But this? _Nope_."

Doc applauded from where he sat on the sofa with an issue of _The Technology Review_ open in his lap. He tolerated Tiff trash-talking herself about as well as he tolerated Marty trash-talking himself, so his timing wasn't a surprise. "You realize you're doing well for only having been at this since late September last year, don't you?" he asked. "Marty's impressed with your progress."

Marty nodded, setting his guitar aside on the coffee table. That was all-around bad practice, but he was tired and only had a week till classes started up again. He wasn't looking forward to leaving the comforts of Hill Valley, of _home_. He left the red armchair and went over to join Doc on the sofa, collapsing next to him. "You're an exhausting student," he said, pushing Doc's magazine up and aside so he could lay his head in Doc's lap; _that_ got him a long, cool look down the bridge of Doc's nose. "But that's because I've never done this before. You _do_ catch on fast."

Tiff preened, unfolding her long legs, getting up from the floor. She slung her pawn-shop instrument carelessly over her shoulder, fixing Einstein, who'd been curled up beside her thumping the carpet with his tail, with an apologetic look. "Sorry, buddy," she said. "I've gotta go home."

"Sure you don't want me to drive you?" Marty asked, but he made no move to get up. Doc was holding the magazine up closer to the light with his right hand now; his left was busy carding affectionately through Marty's hair. "We can just pop your bike in the back of the truck and—"

"Uh, dude, no offense," said Tiff, smirking at him while she gave Einie some goodbye scritches behind the ear, "but I can tell you aren't going _anywhere_." She went over to the door and jammed her feet into her Chucks. "You'll have to carry him to bed soon if you keep that up," she told Doc, yanking open the door. "Hey, when do you guys leave for good old Menlo Park?"

"A week from now, give or take," Doc told her, sighing as he set aside the magazine. "It's been a pleasure listening to you, Tiff, as always. Ride safely, and give my best to your parents."

"Did you remember your helmet?" asked Marty, realizing only too late it was _the_ most mom-ish thing he could've possibly said. He squeezed his eyes shut and smacked the sofa cushion.

"I can't _believe_ you!" Tiff exclaimed, waving. "You're a square, McFly. I'm outta here."

"I don't know about you," Marty muttered as soon as the door had slammed shut behind her, "but I have no idea how we're doing with this one. Einie turned out all right, but I guess girls really are harder?" He let out a short, hysterical laugh. "Jesus, Doc. She can _jam_ already."

"Those adept in the sciences often find that music also comes naturally," said Doc, shrugging, "and vice versa." His fingers stilled in Marty's hair. "However, if I may be so bold as to offer an observation," he said, "you're a fine teacher. You're not just a friend to her, but a _mentor_."

Marty had shut his eyes, enjoying the attention, but now he was blinking up at Doc in scarcely contained dismay. "Back up a second," he said, reaching up to grab Doc's hand, twining their fingers. "You're saying I'm _actually_ patient enough to teach a headstrong kid like her?"

Doc shrugged, stroking the side of Marty's thumb with his own. "I've been party to her progress for almost four months now, haven't I?" he asked. "She couldn't even read music in the fall."

Marty thought this over for a few seconds, scrutinizing Doc's eyes. There was a message here, something Doc had likely been trying to get through to him since his last oh-fuck-what-am-I-even-going-to-major-in rant, and it had the ring of truth. "How long can I get away with being undeclared?" he asked carefully, scratching the tip of his nose. "I can't remember."

"Usually not past the end of your first year, _maybe_ the start of your second," Doc replied, letting go of Marty's hand, resuming his stroking. "Nobody wants you to rush, but you've already front-loaded your Humanities and Science requirements. Why not take advantage of that and start fine-tuning your curriculum now that you're heading into your second semester?"

Marty closed his eyes again, turning his head into the touch. He could see where this was going, could discern the pitch of this conversation's momentum like a runaway train. It was thrilling.

"I guess I'd better talk to somebody about setting up an audition with the Music Department when we get back," he said slowly, "and then ask if Music Ed is a major at the undergrad level, or if you just add on those bells and whistles by doing a Master's." He could tell Doc was pleased by the way his muscles relaxed, by the way his caresses waxed firmer, more heartfelt. "What do you think?"

"I think you're making a wise decision," said Doc, relieved. "I think you'll do us both proud."

"You'd better not give me shit for declaring an English minor while I'm at it," Marty replied.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Doc murmured, tugging at Marty's shoulders until he sat up. "Deal."

Marty smiled, shifting into his lap. "Is this your way of saying Tiff's prediction was accurate?"

"Minus the carrying you to bed," said Doc, leaning in for a teasing kiss, "I suppose it _is_."

 

**June 1990**

The Tannen house was bigger than Marty remembered it, a weird labyrinth of upstairs hallway until he found his way from the bathroom back to the stairs. Somebody had been using the one off the kitchen, and he really _had_ drunk too much beer for once in his life, so he'd gone exploring until he'd found the one next to Tiff's bedroom. He'd taken a quick glance in _there_ , too, while he was at it.

Her latest crop of vintage band posters had made him smile.

Doc was waiting outside in the humid dusk, his single nursed-over-hours glass of wine in hand, watching people he scarcely knew mill about. George and Lorraine were talking to Jo, who was taking every possible opportunity to brag that her daughter had not only graduated Salutatorian (an achievement never before reached by either Tannen _or_ Healy stock, it would seem), but was also headed for CalTech in the fall. She'd taken to conveniently ignoring what almost everyone else knew; it was the same thing she ignored in Marty and Doc. She'd gotten good at it.

"You might want to launch an investigation on the tool shed when you get a chance," Doc suggested mildly, the casual press of his hand at the small of Marty's back preventing him from anything more impulsive.

Doc looked _great_ in that hat, dammit, and he was wearing button-down blue madras that wasn't so loud for once. It was novel, and Marty was just tipsy enough to think nosing his way under the collar to nip at Doc's neck might be nice.

"Why's that?" Marty asked, leaning into Doc's side as much as he dared. "Did the twins hole up in there with a bunch of fireworks or something? Those boys are bad news."

"No, but Tiff and the youngest Wilson girl went in about ten minutes ago," said Doc, under his breath, "and they haven't come out since. You might want to see to it Tiff doesn't do anything she might regret on the night of her graduation party. Jo's making shifty eyes at everyone standing around the yard. She knows she hasn't spotted her eldest in a while."

"Aw, _jeez_ ," Marty said, disengaging himself from Doc's touch far than he'd have liked. "She has no sense of moderation, does she? I'd better find Toni or Louis; I might need back-up."

"Emerson's right over there," replied Doc, helpfully pointing out the youngest of Louis's three cousins. "I think the others have gone back up to the patio for more sustenance."

"Would you just say _hot dogs_ like a normal person?" Marty sighed, giving Doc's hand a squeeze before heading in Emerson's direction. "I'll be back. Why don't you finish that wine and chase it with some water? I don't wanna be shoving Tylenol down your throat all day tomorrow."

Doc used the leverage of Marty's hand to pull him in for a brief, chaste kiss. "Go avert disaster, Future Boy," he said. "In my experience, it's what you were put on this earth to do."

"Yeah, like that's what got me the B.A. I just earned and the grad-program admission this fall," Marty shot back, already heading off with his hands shoved in his pockets. He was glad it wasn't brighter out, because he was probably blushing. He and Doc weren't showy in public as a rule, but they ranged from open secret to full disclosure with most people in attendance (Jo's people, the Healys, mostly kept to themselves on the far side of the yard; Marty didn't give a shit whether strangers like them had caught the moment or not). "Don't worry, Doc! I'm on it!"

"You're dangerously close to drunk, Marty," Doc said, waving him off. "Stop shouting."

His cheeks _definitely_ burning, Marty made his way to where Emerson was entertaining Linda's two-year-old son, Matías, with a jar of bubbles. Riley, Dave's four-year-old stepdaughter, was watching, intently dubious. Marty stuck his hands back in his pockets, taking a moment to ponder how the fuck they'd gotten to the start of a whole new decade without benefit of a time machine. Linda and Craig had a second kid on the way, for Christ's sake; Dave had met Karen, a divorced yoga instructor, when Marty had been in his sophomore year of college.

"Hey, Em," Marty said, dropping to a crouch beside his niece and nephew, reaching for the bubble wand and jar. "We've got a, well, situation on our hands. Have you seen Isadine around?"

"Nah, dude," said Emerson, wiping his hands gratefully on his jeans. "Said she and Tiff were going to mess with something Tiff's been working on. Wires and shit. I'm not into that."

Marty handed the wand and jar to Riley. "You know how this works, right?" he asked, and the girl nodded soberly. "Why don't you show Matí how it's done while we go find Em's sister, okay?"

"Marty!" gasped Matías, happily. As young as he was, he seemed to appreciate the sound-similarity between his nickname and Marty's; he said Marty's name every chance he got. "Play?"

"Not right now, baby boy," Marty said, kissing his forehead. "You stay with Riley, understand?" He got to his feet, and Matías nodded eagerly, two fingers already stuck in his mouth.

Riley tugged on Marty's sleeve. "Can we blow bubbles with Doc?" she asked. "He looks lonely."

"That's a cool idea," Emerson said. "You go keep your uncle busy while we look for my sister."

The kids dashed off, shrieking, spilling about half the bubble solution while they were at it. Marty brushed off his hands and gave Emerson a grim look. "Are we ready for this?"

"Where are we going, exactly?" Emerson asked. "In the house? I don't wanna make Mr. Tannen mad," he added, lowering his voice. "When dude's cranky, he's a _bitch_."

"You have no idea," said Marty, distractedly, tugging him toward the shed. They only had a few yards to go, and he was _just_ the wrong combination of intoxicated and having original-1985 flashbacks to deal with this. He banged on the door, steeling himself. "It's me!" he said, hoping the shed's occupants would hear him over the general racket. "And Emerson!"

In an odd turn of events, Biff opened the shed door, mountain-pie irons in hand. "Hey, Marty!" he said, sounding cheerful enough; Tiff and Isadine hovered behind him, each bearing a few irons in kind. "I hear congratulations are in order for you, too. College went fast, huh?"

" _Ah_ , yeah," Marty agreed, trying to ignore the fact that Emerson was side-eyeing him in annoyance. "Starting my M.A. in Music Education this fall. No rest for the wicked."

"How about you?" Biff asked Emerson, stepping out of the shed. "Emerson, right? My daughter says you and your sisters can really play. She loves jammin' with you guys and Marty here."

Emerson nodded, sparing Biff a cautious half-smile. "Going into my junior year at UC Irvine," he said. "Majoring in Business Management. I'm getting interested in music-industry administration."

"You kids these days are smart," Biff said, wandering off. "Tiff! Bring those over, would ya?"

Marty folded his arms across his chest, regarding Tiff and Isadine in the shed doorway. They were almost-eighteen and twenty-two respectively, but they looked for all the world like guilty children.

"You're lucky he was already in there," Emerson told his sister. "He'd have walked in on you."

Isadine shrugged. "Then I guess the universe was looking out for us. Quit being a nosy fucker!"

"I don't think it's his fault," Tiff pointed out, stepping down, bumping Marty's shoulder as she pushed past him. "Everybody's Mom thinks he knows what's best." She glared at Marty, but it wasn't backed by genuine malice. "Is _that_ why you've decided to be a teacher?"

"No," Marty said. "It's because teaching you to play made me realize I'd enjoy it. Now would you _please_ start acting as smart as I know you are?" He sniffed the air. "Is something burning?"

"Yeah, and I'd have made Valedictorian if I hadn't let the guitar lessons distract me," Tiff sighed. "C'mon, Izzy. Dad's gonna start shouting at us if we don't haul this crap for him, _stat_."

Marty stepped into the shed as Isadine vacated it, staring at a mess of wires and parts on the table that Tiff had been using as her makeshift lab-space since ninth grade. "Uh, Tiff? Don't tell me you guys were gonna hook up in there. This prank you're building for first semester looks dangerous."

Tiff eyed her in-progress contraption. "What, sex and science don't mix?" she asked with a wink.

Marty followed them out, firmly shutting the shed door. "Forget I asked," he said, grinning back.

 

**July 1992**

Marty hadn't seen Margaret Keenan since 1986. Her grey hair was as bluish under the fluorescent cafeteria lights as he remembered it, still wired to the top of her curiously symmetrical head in a tight bun. Strickland had her by one papery, vein-riddled hand. He thought of Doc stuck unpacking boxes at the Estate; Marjane had been _disconsolate_ to see them go, but she understood that a lack of immediate job prospects for Marty meant they were better off at home in Hill Valley.

"You'll might remember this young man," Strickland said, gesturing at Marty, who'd never been so grateful that grad school had forced him to get decent dress-clothes. "Mr. McFly just completed his Master's at Stanford this May. He's one of the hopefuls we interviewed for your post."

"Your answers to our questions last week were a tad rough, but you were lovely in choir," said Mrs. Keenan, seemingly eager to disengage Strickland, taking one of Marty's hands between her own. "Of course I remember. I only had you for freshman and sophomore years, is that right? You said you wanted to, what was it again, _go solo_?" she asked with a mischievous smile.

Marty laughed weakly, wishing more fiercely than ever that it would've been appropriate for Strickland to include Doc in the retirement-party invite. "It's great to see you, too," he said, gently shaking Mrs. Keenan's hands. "The solo thing didn't work out," he admitted. "My band, the Pinheads? We didn't get much of anywhere. I mostly play gigs for cash with the Wilson kids on weekends," he explained, although none of them were even kids anymore. Toni had a consulting career and a toddler son; Emerson was pursuing an M.B.A.; and Isadine, who'd broken up with Tiff once she'd met Ellie at CalTech, was a journalist. Louis was in a Ph.D. program at Berkeley.

"Marty had the best classroom trial-session I've seen in years," remarked Strickland. "He kept those summer-schoolers in line. I always say, if you can't hack it with seventh graders, you can go home." He scratched his chin, frowning slightly. "How's Doctor Brown finding the science crew?"

"Thanks for thinking of him when you were out to find summer program staff," said Marty, in case he hadn't already said it often enough. He hated feeling beholden to Strickland; it was ridiculous, given neither he, nor Doc really even _needed_ to work, but the truth was that he'd begun to feel like the world's most over-educated layabout. And, anyway, Doc had refused payment.

"Oh, that's right," Mrs. Keenan said, remembering something. "I heard you'd taken up with Emmett as his live-in assistant. Never a dull moment! Would being offered my post interfere with that?"

"Emmett?" Marty echoed, unaccustomed to hearing anyone but his parents use Doc's first name.

"He did electrical repairs for me and my husband," said Mrs. Keenan. "For _years_." She tilted her head at Strickland, and then at Marty, regarding them critically. "You didn't answer my question," she continued. " _Would_ being offered my post interfere with your day-to-day?"

Marty opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Judging by Strickland's expression, there was some dimension to this question that couldn't be voiced in the open; fast on the heels of that first realization, a second followed. She was asking Marty if _he_ thought he was a liability, because heaven knew the School Board and some of the more conservative parents _might_.

"Doc's been filling in for your usual science staffer for three weeks now; he told me you guys asked him if he'd consider it given your faculty member is on sabbatical," said Marty, choosing his words with care. "He started doing this while we were smack in the middle of a move back from Menlo Park. It took twice as long as it should have, but we did it because we thought it was worthwhile." He spread his hands, at a loss. "I agreed to _interview_ while we were in the middle of that, even. Let's put it this way—you haven't had any complaints about Doc so far, have you?"

Strickland cleared his throat. "Not from the students, no, but there have been a few parents—"

"Then if you hire me, those same parents are going to complain," said Marty. "No way around it."

Mrs. Keenan let go of Marty's damp hand, straightening her lapels. "I _do_ like your spirit."

"One of our other graduates, Tiffany Tannen, is currently blitzing every high-mark record CalTech has ever seen," said Strickland, and Marty couldn't help but wonder why he'd bring Tiff into this. "She's had nothing but positive things to say about this young man's influence in her life."

"What did she do, write me a character reference or something?" Marty asked, trying not to crack up, because this was just about the most hilarious set of circumstances imaginable: a Tannen standing up for a McFly. "I thought you had all the paperwork you needed to consider me."

"She did, as it happens," admitted Strickland, with a completely straight face. "I asked her to."

"Would you mind forwarding that along?" asked Mrs. Keenan. "M H Keenan at AOL dot com."

 _Wow_ , Marty thought. _This eighty-year-old lady's more ahead of the times than Doc._

"I wanted to thank you both for inviting me," he said instead, eyeing the refreshments table. "And I also wanted to thank you again for considering me. I'm sure the competition's pretty stiff."

"You'll hear from us sooner than not, Marty," said Mrs. Keenan, kindly. "Have a drink?"

After that, things loosened up; he had a few drinks, ate some cheese, and caught up with the other teachers he'd had for various classes. Marty politely declined participation in the grand retirement-party tradition of Staff Karaoke, saying he really ought to get home. Mrs. Keenan caught him on his way out, as her ride had arrived; apparently she wasn't much for humiliation, either.

"I hope that my question didn't offend you," she said, her hand on the door handle. "I wanted to see what you'd say, what you'd _do_. Every teacher's facing that firing squad to begin with, and that's those of us _without_ your particular circumstance. I'm ashamed to have to call it that."

"Seven years," Marty said. "Seven years, a house, and a dog. Well, _dogs_ ," he confessed, scuffing at the pavement with his heel. "D'you remember Einstein? He passed a few months back."

"Oh, that poor darling," said Mrs. Keenan. "He was such a sociable creature, wasn't he? A shame."

Marty shrugged and nodded, helping her into the car. "It's okay, though," he said. "We've got Carl now. He's just a puppy, still kind of difficult to train. He's not as inclined to obey orders."

"Good night, Marty," she said, nodding to her grown daughter at the wheel. "We'll be in touch."

Marty watched the Keenans drive off before making his way to the truck, wondering why on earth he'd chosen to drive it when the DeLorean would've done just as well. He'd been so concerned about keeping up appearances, so concerned about _not reminding people_ of what they already knew, lest they hold that against him. He drove above-limit the whole way home.

"That didn't sound terribly law-abiding," Doc remarked as Marty came inside, busy brushing down the dog. "From the sound of things, you screeched in just shy of hitting the garage."

Marty untied his expensive shoes and kicked out of them, dropping his keys on the end table. "I'm not gonna get this job, Doc," he sighed. "We're lucky they even took you on for the summer."

"Why would you say that?" Doc asked, tapping an eagerly wagging Carl with the brush so that he'd settle his fuzzy butt back down. "This party invitation was an excellent sign, I thought?"

"Strickland's on my side, God knows why," Marty said, loosening his tie, and then draped his jacket over the back of the sofa. "I can tell he's gunning hard for Keenan to give her seal of approval."

"It's because you'd be an asset to the school, and he knows it," Doc insisted. He shooed Carl off, watching as the dog greeted Marty with over-eager affection. "The nay-sayers won't have a leg to stand on. Neither one of us has a criminal record, and the worst that can be said is we're eccentric."

"Yeah," Marty sighed, lavishing attention on Carl before leading the dog around to the front of the sofa so he could collapse on it. Carl settled at Marty's feet, giving Marty's sock-covered ankle a concerned lick. "Thank God nobody thinks you're a dangerous lunatic like they did ten years ago."

Doc went to the kitchen and came back, drying his hands patiently on a dishcloth. "I know that your nerves won't settle until you know the outcome," he sighed, tossing the rag down for Carl to play with while he took a seat next to Marty, "but _please_ don't lose sleep over it." He put an arm around Marty, pulling him close. "No matter what happens, I have faith in you."

"I have the feeling this is my high-school audition tape all over again," Marty sighed, leaning in until his lips brushed against Doc's. "Wanna distract me just like you did back then?"

"That's always a worthwhile endeavor," Doc murmured, indulging him until they were both short of breath. "Let's go upstairs," he said at length, unfastening Marty's top few shirt buttons.

They shut the bedroom door in order to keep out the dog; Carl hadn't yet learned to discern when he wasn't welcome. Marty shivered under Doc's touch, welcoming the slow, decadent care Doc was so determined to take. Seven years _wasn't_ nothing. They knew each other by heart.

Doc was dozing against Marty's chest an hour later when the phone rang; fortunately, Marty didn't have far to reach. "Hello, Brown-McFly Residence?" he ventured, somewhat perplexed as to who might call at nine o'clock on a Friday night. Only Linda's kids, Matí and Will, tended to do that if left unattended with the upstairs phone. Will was two, but he'd quickly figured out speed-dial.

"McFly," said the gruff voice. "This is Gerald Strickland. Glad I caught you before you turned in."

"Oh, you know how it is," said Marty, trying to pretend his pulse hadn't just skyrocketed, but that was useless given Doc was awake now and still had an ear pressed against his heartbeat. "We keep late hours up here. Thanks again for the invite. I had fun. Mrs. Keenan's still a charmer."

"What would you say to an invitation to turn up for staff orientation the week before classes start in September?" Strickland asked. "That Tannen girl saved your ass. We were all in favor _except_ for Margaret. She likes you from years back and agreed you were good with the kids, but she found your _lifestyle choices_ objectionable. Reading firsthand evidence of positive influence was what she needed to tip the balance. You're hired."

"She made it sound like she was sympathetic," said Marty, stunned. "That takes _real_ skill."

"Say what you will, but she's a professional," Strickland replied. "Need a week to think it over?"

Doc closed his eyes, pressing a kiss against Marty's breastbone. Marty could tell he was smiling.

"No, sir," he said, and, for the first time in his life, _meant_ it with all due respect. "I don't."

 

**October 1994**

Marty had started the day off on the wrong foot, as he tended to every now and again. Going into his third academic year teaching at HVH didn't mean squat, especially not with Strickland still running the place. Overslept mornings where Doc had to nudge him awake with promises of bringing his favorite take-out for lunch were _occasionally_ a thing, and the glares he got from Strickland on entering the staff lounge at the start of second period (with overpriced coffee from this crazy new drive-through thing called Starbucks) were almost as much of an honor as being called _daydreamer_ or _slacker_. The guy was sixty-nine years old and showed absolutely no signs of intending to retire.

Good thing Marty never taught earlier than third.

As if that hadn't been bad enough, Doug and Don Tannen—seniors now, the little _shits_ —had pretty much ruined the rest of Marty's day with unprecedented belligerence during a ninth-period study hall for which Marty had been asked to sub. He drove home furious; as usual, Doc could tell the second he came in the door something was wrong. Sighing, he took Marty's coat.

"Get it off your chest," Doc said, setting a hand on Marty's shoulder. "What have they done?"

"Dot Klingensmith couldn't babysit her ninth-period study hall because her kid got sick at day-care, so I said I'd fill in last-minute," Marty sighed, straggling out of his shoes. "It was about ten kids, all seniors, and I recognized most of them from choir. Generally well behaved, you know? Unfortunately, I got the Tannen twins in the mix, and they were being loud about passing notes with Marisol Whitner in the back row. Laughing, whispering, shit like that. I snagged one of the notes off the corner of Don's desk. It was from Marisol. Do you want to know what it said?"

"I can guess at the theme," Doc sighed, taking Marty by the elbow, leading him over to the sofa. He got him seated before disappearing to the kitchen, returning with a glass of the wine Marty knew was meant to go with dinner; they were expecting guests. "Tell me, Marty. You'll feel better."

Marty sighed. "It said, and I quote: _Is it true the hot music teacher is gay for Doc Brown?_ "

Doc took a swig of wine before handing it over to Marty. "Well, I agree with her assessment regarding your attractiveness, but I'm disappointed in the derogatory connotation—"

Marty spat the mouthful he'd just taken back into the glass, seized by fits of helpless laughter. "Oh, Doc," he managed, gasping behind his hand. "It gets better! I was just going to throw the damn thing out, pretend I'd never set eyes on it, hoping maybe they'd take that as sufficient warning, but Doug wasn't about to let it drop. He raised his hand once I'd got back up front to the desk, cool as you please, so I called on him—he must need the restroom pass or something right? Nope. He opens his mouth and says, _It's true, isn't it? At least that's what my sister says_."

Doc was frowning now, but he was still calm. "I'm tempted to have a word with Tiff when she and Ellie turn up for dinner. Maybe she can tell her father to knock some sense into those boys."

"Anyway, I told him, _You should know better than to ask personal questions_. That's when Don chimed back in with—and, again, direct quote— _What the hell are you, chicken?_ " Marty realized only too late that his hand was shaking; he'd managed to spill some wine on Carl.

Doc sighed and took the glass away from him, setting it on the coffee table. "Marty, I hope to God you didn't take the bait," he said. " _You_ should know better than to let them get a rise out of you. Where's the note now? Did you take it to Strickland? How did the situation resolve?"

The doorbell sounded, accompanied by enthusiastic knocking, but Doc adamantly ignored both.

"The note's in my staff locker," said Marty, reaching for the wine, gulping it down. "No, I didn't show it to Strickland. I wanted to ask your advice before taking action, because what happened was this: I just didn't answer. I went back to reading my book, the twins went back to snickering, and then the final bell rang. That's all there is." He set the glass back on the coffee table, sagging.

The doorbell sounded again, followed by the sound of muffled, _panicked_ swearing and the sound of someone's key in the lock. Marty's heart was in his throat for a split-second before he realized they'd never confiscated Tiff's key. She'd been carrying it all these years.

"Oh my _God_ ," Tiff said, blinking at both of them where they sat. "Don't you _ever_ do that to me again! If I get no fucking answer, I'll assume something terrible has happened, okay?"

"Er, hi," said Ellie, fiddling nervously with her dark, upswept hair. "You met me for like five minutes at our graduation this spring. Nice to see both of you again! Marty and—Emmett?"

"The pleasure's all mine," Doc said, rising while Tiff rushed to Marty's side. "You can just call me what everyone else around here calls me; I won't be offended. What shall I call you, Ms. Joseph?"

"You _butthead_ ," Tiff muttered, falling onto the sofa beside Marty, heedless of her smart three-piece suit, throwing her arms around him. "You look awful. What happened? Who died?"

" _Um_ ," Marty said, patting her back, "I had a hard day, is all. You know how Doc fusses."

"Yeah," she sighed, sitting back, disentangling her arms from Marty's. "High-school students suck, and we should know. Hey, you don't have my awful brothers in choir or band or anything, do you?"

"Fortunately," Marty said, attempting to maintain a straight face, "I don't. But I see them around."

"If you happen to have them in spring," she said, "good luck getting them to pay attention in class!"

Marty straightened up, adjusting his collar. "I'm pretty good at handling Tannens by now, thanks."

Doc glanced over from where he stood chatting with Ellie, raising a reproachful eyebrow at Marty.

"Whatcha starin' at, Doc?" asked Tiff, breaking into a grin. "Did your boyfriend just lie to my face?"

"I was simply telling Ellie that she ought to introduce herself to Marty," said Doc, carefully neutralizing his expression. "He hasn't yet had the pleasure of her acquaintance."

Ellie closed the short distance between herself and the sofa, reaching out with a smile. "Ellie Joseph," she said, shaking Marty's hand. "I was a CS major just like Tiff. Programming's the _shit_. Berkeley Systems recruited us both back in June, so we're even working for the same company."

Marty noted her striking features: straight black hair, smooth dark skin, and even darker eyes. "It's great to meet you properly now that we've got time," he said, returning the handshake. "I seem to remember Tiff mentioned on the phone a couple of years back that you're a California native in the most _literal_ sense? I'd love to hear about where you grew up."

"Oh, yeah," Ellie said brightly, taking a seat on the opposite side of him. "I'm Shoshone-Paiute, Lone Pine Reservation. That's my country. You should come visit! Some of my family's still there—my mother, my brother, a few aunts from Dad's side." She frowned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm just—" Marty knew the appellation was a coincidence, that it had _nothing_ to do with his irrevocable meddling, but it had still given him pause "—thinking about how our local shopping mall is called Lone Pine and how it now seems like a terrible use for something so poetic."

"Hey, Tiff told me about that the day we met!" said Ellie. "I made her promise to take me there."

"That'll have to wait," Doc said, coming in from the kitchen with two full glasses, handing them off to Tiff and Ellie. He fetched Marty's glass, left again, and then returned with a refill and a fresh glass for himself. "Tonight, there'll be food, company, and catching up. Who'll drink to that?"

"Try and stop me," Marty said, raising his glass to clink against everyone else's. "Although Doc's been hitting his mom's cookbook a little too hard again, so I hope you guys like stewed rabbit."

 

**May 1999**

Marty studied his reflection in the full-length mirror, remembering, for no good reason, the time Tiff had dressed him up in a bunch of her clothes and Jo's for shits and giggles (where _shits and giggles_ had been equal to _spicing up Marty's sex life_ ). "That was wild, huh?" he said.

"I'm afraid I still haven't perfected the art of mind-reading," Doc said, coming up behind him, peering over Marty's shoulder to fiddle with his bowtie. "To what are you referring?"

"That time Tiff dolled me up for you just to see what would happen," Marty blurted.

"As I recall, _you_ had wanted to see what would happen," Doc reminded him.

"This black-tie aesthetic isn't my favorite thing," Marty admitted, fussing with his collar.

"It's a little old-fashioned," Doc allowed, adjusting Marty's collar, "but it's classy as hell."

"Get me outta here before I change my mind," Marty muttered. "Forty-six years, Doc. That's how long Strickland worked at HVH. Just how do you _accomplish_ that without cracking up?"

"Discipline," said Doc, shrugging, studying their reflections one last time. "Come on, I'll drive."

The Bluebird was as fitting a place as any to host such an occasion, so Marty had to hand it to the School Board and to the Administration. They'd pulled out all the stops: HVH-themed decorations, cocktail waiters with well-stocked trays, champagne on demand, the _works_. Somebody took their coats at the door, which Marty had at least been expecting from the few times he'd gone with his parents. The time he'd played that gig with Louis and his cousins had been another story.

It was as if Strickland's programming dictated that he zero in on any McFly within immediate range. He was right there in Marty's face before Doc could even touch Marty's arm to alert him.

"Good evening," Marty said, refusing to let the suddenness rattle him. "How are things, Gerald?"

"Not too shabby," said Strickland, punching Marty in the arm, breaking into a broad, if somewhat wrinkled grin, "considering I'll finally be rid of the likes of _you_. We've had a good run."

"I'd say that's true," Doc agreed, accepting Strickland's vigorous handshake. "Many happy returns."

"How you've got five years on me, Emmett, and still don't look a day over sixty, I have _no_ idea," Strickland said, "but I guess it's luck of the draw. Whether you're born in 1920 or in 1925, it doesn't make a damn spot of difference. It's all down to genetics, isn't it? _You'd_ know."

"Genetics play a crucial role, but there's something to be said for clean living," Doc said, releasing Strickland's hand. "I rarely drink, but I'll toast you tonight. Got any plans for your retirement?"

"None I plan to share," said Strickland. "Won't you gents grab a glass and join me? My sister, rest her soul, was a real teetotaler," he said leading them into the dining room, "but not me. Say, did you ever get any use out of that telescope of hers from the rummage sale? Strange old thing."

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," Marty said, giving Doc a cautious look. "Doc fixed it right up, no trouble at all. We used to take it out on the balcony while we were living in Menlo Park."

Even though they'd reached a table right near the stage with fancy _RESERVED_ placards at each seat, Strickland didn't sit down. He turned to blink at them, as if he hadn't really _looked_ at either of them that closely before, and certainly not _together_.

"It's remarkable," Gerald said with slow, undisguised amazement, "that this has all worked out."

Marty exchanged optimistic glances with Doc before turning back to his colleague.

"I think I know exactly what you mean," he said, "and, for the record, _sir_ , I'm glad, too."

 

**June 2008**

By the time Marty emerged from the courthouse with Doc on his arm, Tiff and Ellie, with marriage license in hand, were already lingering at the foot of the stairs next to George and Lorraine. Marty waved to all of them using the certificate that had just been issued to him and Doc, only to scandalize his mother by handing it over to Doc, who promptly folded it in four and stuck it in his breast pocket. The sun was so bright Marty had to squint against it; if Doc hadn't had a firm hold on him, he'd have tripped down the last few stairs. They both started laughing.

"It'll be all creased!" Lorraine fussed, jettisoning her cane in favor of wrapping Marty and Doc in as much of a hug as she could manage. "Now I'll never get a decent scan for the scrapbook!"

"Don't worry about it, Ma," Marty said, kissing her hair as she released them with a sniffle. "It's not that important. More of a receipt for what happened here today, you know? It's the photos and video footage we're going to want, so I hope you and Dad got plenty."

"Marriage originally formed as more of a contract, a financial transaction, than anything else," said Doc, absently, "so that's fitting. It underscores how unbelievable the fuss has been and how long this has taken, of course. There wasn't much religion tied up in it except a Mass to bless—"

"Speaking of which, Dad's probably rolling in his grave," said George, shaking Doc's hand. "All of what you've said is true. I've read Graff's book, too, and I enjoyed it a great deal. Beacon published that in decent time, if I remember right, to coincide with the precedent set by Massachusetts?"

"Dad, shut up," Marty sighed, and George clapped his shoulder much harder than was necessary.

Doc was looking out across the square, seemingly trying to locate Tiff and Ellie, who'd been there one moment and gone the next. He shaded his eyes and said, "I think we've got company."

The camera anchor for HVTV shooed George and Lorraine to one side, nonetheless attempting to keep them in the shot. Doc had taken Marty's arm again—more out of protectiveness than anything else—but the anchor gave him a thumbs-up and stuck a microphone right under Marty's nose.

"Congratulations on this truly momentous occasion," said the anchor, and, wow, yeah, they were _live_. "You've been waiting a long time, those ladies over there tell me?" he said, pointing.

Marty glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Tiff and Ellie trying to hide behind another family who'd taken to effusively congratulating their daughter and her partner. "Oh, man," he sighed, giving in when Lorraine beamed at them, turning back to the camera with a resigned smile. "We've been together...jeez, Doc, for how long? At _least_ twenty years."

"Twenty- _two_ years," Doc corrected him, giving the anchor an earnest nod before turning back to Marty. "You were eighteen when you started chasing me all over hell and creation."

 _Seventeen and a half, Jesus Christ,_ Marty thought, _but I'm not gonna say that on live television with all my nieces and nephews watching, and Tiff's kids, too, over at Linda's house_.

"It's not my fault you're hot stuff, Doc," he said instead, winking at the anchor, glad to play along. He'd better not mention that his fortieth birthday had been four days ago, and hadn't _that_ been a night to remember. Doc would turn eighty-eight in September, but he didn't really look it; late sixties now at most, _maybe_ a graceful seventy, was what people tended to guess.

"Now you see what I put up with on a daily basis," said Doc, feigning annoyance. _Adorable_.

"That's extraordinary," said the anchor, clearly at a loss for words, "especially given the age—"

"I had to get him before somebody else did," Marty cut in, not about to let this turn into commentary on societal expectations, no _way_. "I wasn't getting any younger, you know?"

Doc had gone quiet, which wasn't unusual under circumstances when levity could no longer bear the weight of emotion. "Don't worry," he said. "My eyes were _always_ fixed on you."

The memory hits with precisely as much force as Doc has put behind his words; Marty's almost-eighteen again, standing on tiptoe with his hands fisted in Doc's lapels, telling Doc off before giving him that kiss. Marty knows he shouldn't cry, so he closes his eyes for a few seconds until he's sure the fact that he's misted up is all the kids will see. "You do know we're on television, right?" he asked Doc.

Doc reached for the camera, guiding the lens toward George and Lorraine. "You might want to get some perspective from friends and family," he suggested kindly, pointing to Tiff and Ellie as well.

"Hey," Marty said, setting his hand against Doc's cheek, guiding his attention back. "Come here."

They kissed for what felt like a _really_ long time; it was thrilling not to worry about who might be watching or what they might think. There'd be opponents, sure, and probably attempts to change the law in months to come, but Marty wasn't about to let _anyone_ ruin his wedding day.

They were back to talking by the time Tiff, Ellie, George, and Lorraine found them again.

"We should get back to your sister's," Lorraine said, tapping Marty's shoulder. "There's cake."

"Susanna's probably tearing shit up," Tiff sighed, kissing the back of Ellie's hand. "Let's go."

At Linda's house, there was, indeed, cake. Craig, Senior Partner extraordinaire, had taken up cookery in his spare time; between George's grilling and Craig's baking, the family rarely lacked for food on special occasions. The teenagers and twentysomethings—Riley, Matí, and Will—hung back on the sofa with Dave and Karen while the younger children all but _rushed_ them.

"Hey, everybody," Marty said, pushing inside so he could hold the door for Doc and his parents while Tiff and Ellie argued their way out of the car ( _somebody_ had misplaced Julian's pacifier), "we're back from— _whoa_ , whoa, slow down." He intercepted an armful of Susanna, her red hair, grey-green eyes, and freckles a kaleidoscope of color. "What's this?"

"I made you this," said the three year-old, well over the shyness that had marked her when Tiff and Ellie had _finally_ been cleared for adoption and given her a home the year before. " _And_ you," she added, gazing adoringly up at Doc as he walked in behind Marty.

"How's my girl?" he asked, holding out his arms, so Marty handed her over. "This is quite colorful," he told her, studying the glitter-and-glue riot on the paper she held up. "Thank you."

Linda urged Julian forward; the one-year-old had Ellie's dark skin, Ellie's dark hair, and the _bluest_ eyes any of them had seen in a long while.

Marty could see the resemblance now, stronger day by day; even after Tiff and Ellie had convinced him to be their donor, as devastated as they'd been in fearing they'd never be cleared to adopt, he'd had reservations. _What if I end up passing on something awful?_ he'd asked. Tiff had been _furious_ when their fertility specialist had rejected Doc on account of his age. Ellie had talked her down, insisting that Marty was more than smart enough to suffice. At that juncture, they'd gotten him past his misgivings by pointing out that most uncles were blood-related to their nieces and nephews _anyway_. And then Susanna had come to them three months before Julian was born.

"He worked hard," Linda told Marty, catching the boy up so that she could hand him to Tiff, who'd come to stand beside Marty. "He made more of a mess than the others, and it's pretty abstract," she added, tugging up his piece of artwork by one sticky corner, "but give him an A for effort, okay?"

"Hey, kiddo," Tiff said, bouncing Julian consolingly. "You missed your mommies, huh? What did you make for Uncle Marty?" she asked. "Tell you what, that's a regular Picasso. Don't you think?"

Julian held the paper up for Marty to see, turning his face to hide shyly against Tiff's shoulder.

Doc peered at the mess of glue streaks and glitter, stepping back so George and Lorraine could get past them and join Craig in the kitchen for critical food analysis. "You've got a knack," he said.

"Hey, Jules! You're gonna be the one who gives us a heart attack when you say you want to go to art school," Ellie sighed, reaching from behind Doc to ruffle the toddler's hair. "Aren't you?"

"Okay, everybody, how about let's get away from the door and sit down like normal people?" Linda asked, raising her voice. "I should warn you, though—there's glitter everywhere, and I'm _pissed_."

Will whispered something to Matí, snickering, and the two of them fled the living room.

"Matías Arthur!" Linda shouted up the stairs, almost knocked off-balance as Riley slipped past her to catch up. "William _Adrián_! You get back here this instant and congratulate—"

"Aw, let 'em be," Marty told Linda, grinning, and took a seat beside Dave, who shook his hand.

Doc sat down beside Karen, accepting her heartfelt hug. "Agreed," he said. "More room for us."

 

**September 2015**

Marty held out both hands, determined not to let Susanna knock out another tooth in her quest to master the hoverboard. "It's down to how you shift your weight, trust me on this," he said.

"I _know_ ," she said stubbornly, releasing a hiss of breath, clinging to Marty's hands as the contraption wobbled beneath the soles of her light-up sneakers. "You've told me a million times!"

"Doc _made_ that?" Julian asked in awe, kicking the edge of it. "Looks kinda old, I guess."

"Yeah," said Marty, fiercely glad that this particular six-year-old was generally inclined to take whatever people told him at face value. "We've had it since...oh, eighty-five or eighty-six."

"I pulled it out of the closet right over there in eighty-six," said Tiff, helpfully, passing through with Doc's birthday cake in hand. "So he must've finished it not too long before that," she added.

 _This is unbelievable_ , Marty thought, cautiously letting go of Susanna's hands. _It's the year 2015,_ actual _2015, and we don't have hoverboards. We don't even have flying cars. The only thing we've got is shoes that light up when your feet hit the ground, but I guess that's good enough for jazz_. His back pocket vibrated. _And I guess we've got smart-phones._

"Marty, you'd better answer that," Doc chided, following Tiff into the dining room with his hands full of silverware. "You know how Linda gets when you don't answer her texts for days."

"They disappear on me sometimes!" Marty insisted, appealing to Susanna and Julian when Doc vanished into the other room. Confident that Susanna seemed to be holding her own without tipping over (albeit not cruising around just yet), Marty stood up and tugged his iPhone out of his jeans. "It wasn't my sister, FYI!" he called after Doc. "It's Riley's latest Snapchat! How do I—"

"You are hopeless," said Julian, reaching for the phone. He tapped through several mystifying screens and held his thumb down on Riley's name, determined, until a short video clip of her singing _Happy Birthday_ off-key for Doc was complete. "Wow. She's hopeless, too."

Doc stuck his head back through the doorway, forks still in hand. "That was extremely thoughtful," he said, his forehead crinkling as he smiled. "Tell her I said thanks. Just swipe to use the text function."

"Will do," Marty said, reaching to take back his phone, but Julian had already managed to get the app in text mode and type _UNCLE MARTY STILL DOESNT KNOW HOW TO USE THIS SO HI THIS IS JULES YOOO_. "Or not," he sighed. "Can you send Doc's message next?"

"Yup," said Julian, grinning, and fired it off quick as you please. "Can I play Angry Birds now?"

"Be my guest," Marty sighed, turning back to check up on Susanna's progress. She'd managed to glide about three feet by cautiously paddling along with one foot, which was something _else_ Marty had explained a million times. At least it had all finally clicked. "How's it going?"

"This thing is super neat!" Susanna said, grinning from ear to ear. "Could I surf with it?"

"I bet water would short it out," Julian muttered glumly, eyes locked on the phone screen.

Marty blinked at him. "You're right," he remarked, impressed. "It doesn't work on water."

"That kind of stinks," said Susanna, wrinkling her nose, cruising a full circle around Marty and her brother without having to propel the hoverboard with her foot. "Outta my way, _suckers_!"

Ellie came out of the kitchen wearing oven mitts; from the smell of things, the banana bread was done. "My charming daughter," she sighed, offering Marty an apologetic look. "You can tell which side of the family _she_ takes after, never mind the lack of genetic connection."

"Nurture has _something_ to do with it," Marty said, shrugging. "Just not everything."

Unexpectedly, Julian came over and tugged on Marty's wrist. "Will you teach me, too?" he asked, handing Marty's iPhone back to him. "I'm afraid," he added in a whisper. "Please don't tell her!"

"Sure I will," said Marty, putting the phone back in his pocket, swinging the boy up in his arms. Julian was small for six: skinny, quick, and full of subtler mischief than his sister. "After dinner."

"You better _promise_ , butthead," he said, looping his arms around Marty's neck. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Marty confirmed, swinging Julian until he shrieked with delight. Meanwhile, Susanna was skating ever-swifter circles around a frustrated Ellie. "Hey, Suz. Let your mom go," he said mildly.

Doc came out of the dining room empty handed, pausing to watch Susanna's progress and give Marty's shoulder a squeeze. "We're almost done," he said. "Thanks for keeping the kids busy."

"It's your goddamn birthday, Doc," Marty sighed, letting Julian, restless, slip to the floor so he could lean up and kiss Doc's cheek. "You shouldn't be slaving away in there. Why didn't you relax with these two like I said you should?"

" _Relax_?" asked Doc. "How relaxed do _you_ feel now that it's been forty-five minutes?" He tugged Marty close, resting his cheek against Marty's hair. "She's a hellion, isn't she?"

"Yeah, well," Marty said, glad Doc couldn't see his expression. "That's redheads for you, isn't it?"

Doc pinched Marty's ass good and hard. It was the kind of reaction Marty didn't get nearly often enough, but, who knows, maybe Doc would oblige him more often as Marty approached retirement. "Cheap," he said.

"You know something?" Marty asked, watching Susanna skate around Marie, their Border Collie, where she lay asleep in front of the fireplace. "You're starting to look your age." _Provided your age is, I don't know, seventy-five_ , he thought, marveling. _Whatever they did to you in 2015-that-never-will-be, it certainly seems to have had an effect._

"I'm ninety-five, Marty," Doc sighed; his voice was the most significant change, pitched lower now, rougher, but still full of its characteristic warmth. "I'd say I'm doing pretty well with what I've got."

"Oh, we're doing _great_ ," Marty replied, fishing out his phone. "Say cheese, Doc," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marie the Border Collie first appeared in the photo album at the beginning of [_**Muscle Memory**_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3971158). Leaper named her; if you're guessing that the estimable Madame Curie is her namesake, you would be correct. Carl, however, is entirely my fault; I figure they'd have at least one dog named after a living legend (at that point in the narrative, Carl Sagan was, indeed, still alive).
> 
> There is an additional ficlet for this universe [**here**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4405937); it's basically DeLorean smut gone hilariously wrong (set in 1987).


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